


Across the World, Argentina

by hoesome



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Exes, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Light Bondage, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Public Sex, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Tokyo 2021 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoesome/pseuds/hoesome
Summary: "Look, Hajime—""A truce," Iwaizumi declared, not giving Oikawa the chance to finish."—A truce?" Oikawa repeated suspiciously. "What truce?""I'd like to call a truce. In the spirit of the Olympics, if you want," he waved his hand dismissively. "Just for this month, can I have you back?"When Oikawa returns after nearly a decade abroad, Iwaizumi offers him an olive branch in a last-ditch attempt to salvage a relationship that has never really ended. In the quiet crevices between glory and nostalgia, they're forced to figure out what matters most — and maybe more importantly, what matters just as much.
Relationships: Background Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Background Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, background Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 106
Kudos: 412
Collections: IwaOi Fics





	1. July 9, 2021

Oikawa checked his phone for the umpteenth time and pouted when there was still no word from Hanamaki. Although he had taken a short nap back at the hotel, he had just flown into Tokyo on a red-eye and his jet-lagged body was still running on three hours of sleep. He really should be in bed, _could_ be in bed, but Hanamaki had wanted dinner and the Oikawa that had agreed had been his usual, sociable, non-sleep-deprived self back in Argentina. Now that he’s been waiting by the curry place for ten whole minutes when his entire body was screaming at him to crawl back into bed, dinner, even with the added bonus of Hanamaki, no longer sounded appealing.

He unlocked his phone again, ready to give Hanamaki a call. He was just pulling up his contact when an all too familiar voice called out, “Oikawa?” 

Oikawa’s eye twitched, his jaw clenching as forced his eyes to remain on his phone. If this was what he thought it was, he was going to murder Hanamaki. For now, he chose to ignore the budding problem before him, and the bubbling within him, as he tapped the call button and put him on speaker.

There was some ruffling before Hanamaki’s voice came through. “'Sup?” he greeted easily. Oikawa could hear the smirk in his voice and see it just as clearly in his mind, and he’s never hated his guts as much as he did in this moment. 

Oikawa’s grip tightened around his phone, eyes narrowing at the words _Hanamaki Takahiro 🌸🦩_ , printed across his screen. To think he had bequeathed his contact name with carefully chosen emojis, just to be on the receiving end of such heinous betrayal. There was no doubt in Oikawa that he would be revoking the privilege soon. “Where are you?” Oikawa hissed.

“Home,” he said, in the same easygoing tone. He almost sounded bored.

Oikawa cut to the chase. “Did you set me up?”

A snicker. “You’re losing your edge, Oika—”

His finger landed on the beckoning red button, ending the call. He took a few deep breaths, then realized he still had to deal with the… problem. Oikawa smiled, saccharine sweet, as he tilted his head down to look at the man. At least he looked as confused as Oikawa was annoyed. “Iwa-chan,” he greeted. 

“One second,” he cut in, right as Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond. A voice note from Hanamaki had popped up on his phone. Oikawa turned up the volume and pressed play.

“Mattsun and I would like the two of you to please make up already.” A pause, probably for the words to sink in. “Honestly, we don’t care if you and Iwaizumi are still fucking. We really don’t.” Iwaizumi’s nose crinkled at the crudeness. “But since the both of you have decided to text us about each other every fucking day for the past three years, you’ve made it our business. We don’t want any more texts, so stop being stupid and make up. You too, Iwaizumi. I know you’re listening. Don’t be a dumbass.”

Just as Oikawa was about to put his phone away, another recording came in. His messaging app auto-played it as a continuation of the first one. “And if either of you runs away from dinner, Mattsun and I will block you on everything.”

Oikawa stopped the playback and blocked him preemptively. Out of principle.

Across from him, Iwaizumi laughed weakly, then cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, hands crossed against his chest as his fingers twiddled with the hem of his sleeves, snugly rolled up over his forearms. “Since we’re already here, how about some curry?” He suggested, shooting Oikawa a sheepish grin.

Oikawa considered his options: he could walk back to the hotel hungry, sleepy, hating Makki _and_ his pride for making him walk away, or he could head back just sleepy and hating Makki. He licked his lips. “Curry sounds great.”

Iwaizumi smiled, bridging the distance between them in two steps before reaching over Oikawa to push the door open. “After you,” he said, nodding at the interior. 

Oikawa strode past him, muttering a thank you under his breath. He took a second to inspect the layout before walking over to the far end of the room, having chosen a corner booth. He wasn’t particularly in the mood for other people right now and — he grimaced as their fights from three years prior flashed through his mind — if he wasn’t careful, this meeting might degenerate very quickly into a mess of tears and yelling, so he’d rather not take his chances with privacy. 

“How was your flight?” Iwaizumi asked, once they’ve placed and paid for their order. Oikawa knew small talk was unavoidable, and as far as small talks went, at least Iwaizumi seemed genuinely curious. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find the way they were treading on eggshells around each other suffocating. 

“Long. Bad,” he replied, sitting back in his chair and noting unpleasantly that Iwaizumi’s arms were crossed over his body again. “But what else is new with international flights?” Then, as if suddenly remembering, he brought his hands up to his cheeks, wincing at the dryness he felt. “Also, I think my skin aged a whole year.”

That made Iwaizumi laugh, the sound allowing Oikawa’s own shoulders to relax a little. “Your face can afford to grow a year older.”

Oikawa blinked. _Was that… a compliment?_

“How’s the team?” he asked, instead of acknowledging what Iwaizumi had just said.

Iwaizumi untangled his arm and Oikawa had to grit his teeth to stop himself from smiling. “Good,” he said, placing both hands on the table, lacing his fingers together. “Everyone’s doing their best this close to the Olympics. You know how it is.”

Oikawa acknowledged the statement with a soft hum, neither of them speaking until the food arrived. Iwaizumi broke the silence to thank whoever was listening for the meal. Oikawa followed suit and dug in.

Halfway through, he realized he wasn’t actually that hungry. Probably his fucked up circadian rhythm confusing his body. The fact that this was his first time meeting Iwa-chan in years and they were just sitting around eating curry like they were on an awkward first date certainly didn’t help whet his appetite either.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa mumbled, poking at his food, causing Iwaizumi to shoot him a cursory glance mid-bite. He straightened up to take Oikawa in fully when he saw the look on his face. “Wanna get out of here?”

Iwaizumi swallowed his food. “And go where?” he asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. 

Oikawa kept his attention on the plate, dragging a piece of chicken through the sauce and then across the rice in a weird pattern. “My place. Yours. Doesn’t matter.” Oikawa sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Get _this_ over with?” he repeated slowly. Carefully. 

The corner of Oikawa’s lips quirked up. “This sexual tension,” he said, as if it should've been obvious. And maybe it was. Maybe Iwaizumi has just been in denial. “The eye-fucking when you think I'm not looking.” Oikawa looked at him then, for the first time since they sat down to eat, and his gaze was smoldering. “I want to fuck you as much as you want to fuck me, so why don’t we just do it? Make-up sex counts as making up, right?”

Iwaizumi broke eye contact, gaze trailing down Oikawa’s face to linger just a little too long on his lips. He wet his lips, placing his curry-stained utensils on the table before smiling up at Oikawa, looking mostly unaffected. _Unfair_ , Oikawa thought.

But then he said, “Lead the way,” and Oikawa was sliding out of his chair, grabbing Iwaizumi by the wrist as he power walked the both of them out of the restaurant.

—

They almost tripped on the clothes and gear Oikawa had littered haphazardly on the floor in a hurry to fish out the outfit he was wearing, not exactly paying attention to their surroundings given that Iwaizumi’s hands were cupping Oikawa's face, mouth hurriedly moving against his. He scoffed against Iwaizumi’s lips as he thought about how much sooner they could’ve done this if Iwaizumi hadn’t all but walked away back then. Well, Iwaizumi would probably turn the blame on him, but he supposed it was a matter of perspective.

Iwaizumi pulled back slightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Oikawa said, shoving him back roughly against the wall as he attempted to shut him up with another kiss. Not wanting to be outplayed, Iwaizumi grabbed Oikawa’s shoulders, flipping them around so Oikawa was once again sandwiched between Iwaizumi and the wall. “What?” he repeated.

Oikawa mentally traced Iwaizumi’s features: eyes half-lidded, cheeks slightly flushed, lips full from the light teasing of Oikawa’s teeth. He looked really good like this, and Oikawa wanted to give him everything. “I’ve missed you,” he said before he could second-guess himself, only his second truth of the night.

“Was that so hard to admit?” Iwaizumi searched Oikawa’s eyes and found nothing. That was a little infuriating, but Iwaizumi was confident in his ability to whittle down Oikawa’s defenses. It was something he’d practiced for most of his life, after all.

He sighed, pressing a gentle peck onto Oikawa’s lips. “Me too,” he said.

Then, Oikawa was back on him, tongue commanding to be let in. Iwaizumi opened his mouth obediently, inching closer so they could grind against each other. Oikawa groaned when Iwaizumi’s bulge rubbed against his own, his desire for there to be less fabric between them cutting sharply through the rest of his thoughts.

He felt warm fingers dip under his shirt and allowed himself a smug smile at how Iwaizumi was thinking the same thing. Iwaizumi used the chance to break free from the kiss, swiping his tongue across the back of Oikawa’s teeth as he pulled away.

Oikawa bit down, just hard enough to sting.

Iwaizumi winced, the action so small it would’ve been invisible to anyone who wasn’t Oikawa, and brought a hand up to his mouth to make sure there was no blood.

“Pissy,” he muttered, causing Oikawa to flash him a smile. “You know me,” he answered.

Iwaizumi returned his free hand back onto the bare skin of Oikawa’s abs, humming appreciatively at how they tensed up under his touch, as he moved back toward him, allowing himself to be drawn in. 

“Hmm, guess I do,” he whispered, blowing lightly into Oikawa’s ear and delighting in the whine that followed. “I know,” he continued, as his tongue darted out hot and wet against the shell of Oikawa’s ear, “how sensitive you are here,” he swirled his tongue inside.

Oikawa mewled, despite himself.

Iwaizumi nibbled on his earlobe, holding Oikawa in place as he tried to pull away from the sensory overload. “Iwa-chan,” he cried. “Stop.”

“Stop?” Iwaizumi echoed. Oikawa whipped his head around to protect his left ear, giving it some respite while unfortunately leaving the right one exposed. Iwaizumi went in for the kill, laying kisses along its curve before following up with a coiled tongue, unfurling upon velvety skin. “But why? I know you like this.” He drew away and tucked Oikawa’s chin between two fingers, tilting the man toward him. “I _know_ you, Tooru,” he drawled. “You said so yourself.”

Oikawa mustered up the physical prowess he knew resided within him — he was a professional athlete, wasn’t he? — and shoved Iwaizumi off of him, causing him to stumble backward in shock. Iwaizumi liked to think that without the element of surprise, Oikawa wouldn’t have been able to manhandle him so easily. But with another push Iwaizumi was sinking into soft sheets, and he realized belatedly that he could be okay with being overpowered. He could even be into it. 

Oikawa straddled him, purposefully sitting lower on his thighs to deny Iwaizumi the gratification he must desperately want. Oikawa practically ripped his own shirt off as he felt Iwaizumi’s hands working the button of his pants. He heard something scratchy and metallic, and Iwaizumi was wrenching his boxers down, watching with deep satisfaction as Oikawa’s cock came bouncing out, slapping against the hardness of his stomach.

Iwaizumi curled his fingers around Oikawa’s cock and started stroking. Oikawa threw his head back in pleasure as he blindly reached a hand out to grasp at Iwaizumi's pants, palming him through the thickness of his jeans. Iwaizumi watched amusedly as Oikawa tried clambering out of the hazy desire threatening to drown him under, although the moment didn’t last long. If Oikawa had one defining trait, it was perseverance, and with hard work he was able to free Iwaizumi from the confines of his pants as well.

“Iwa-chan,” he breathed, staring longingly at Iwaizumi’s erect member, and Iwaizumi couldn’t suppress the shiver down his back if he tried. He has always been weak where Oikawa was involved.

“All yours,” Iwaizumi managed.

That was good enough for Oikawa. He leaned forward to take Iwaizumi into his mouth, leisurely making his way down until he felt Iwaizumi push through the opening of his throat.

Iwaizumi groaned, and that was before Oikawa swallowed around him. Oikawa was immensely pleased at the way the tail-end of that noise morphed into something higher-pitched and less in control. “Fuck,” Iwaizumi gasped, as Oikawa started sucking him off enthusiastically. Every time Iwaizumi’s thighs started relaxing between his own, Oikawa would rush back to fuck Iwaizumi into his throat, stringing him tight in constant suspense.

He withdrew smugly, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “I know,” he said haughtily from atop Iwaizumi.

“What?” Iwaizumi said, without thinking, mind still reeling from what just happened.

He saw Oikawa’s arm reach over to grab something off the nightstand but didn’t figure out what it was until Oikawa was tearing the foil packaging open with his teeth. “This,” he said, roughly grabbing the base of Iwaizumi’s cock, to the point of slight discomfort, as his other hand rolled the rubber down onto Iwaizumi smoothly, “is mine.”

Bringing two fingers to his lips, Oikawa slowly started sucking on them, savoring the pained look on Iwaizumi’s face. When they were wet enough, and Iwaizumi straining enough below him, Oikawa slid them out of his mouth with an unnecessarily lewd pop, leering as he inserted them into himself, making a show of working himself open.

Below him, Iwaizumi was breathing heavily, some twisted semblance of pride the only thing keeping him from yanking Oikawa over and shoving into the sinful heat he knew awaited him. When his hand drifted toward his cock to provide some relief, Oikawa narrowed his eyes and swatted it away.

“Patience, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa managed to singsong, as he inserted a third finger and let out a long, breathy moan. “How are you going to last for me like that?”

Iwaizumi glared and sat up without warning, almost throwing Oikawa off-balance. “What are you—”

Iwaizumi’s lips found Oikawa’s as he busied a hand around Oikawa’s cock. His other arm snaked around Oikawa, hand settling in his hair.

“Fuck,” Oikawa cried, breaking away from the kiss. He hadn't been expecting the extra stimulation. “Hajime.”

Iwaizumi ignored him and made his way down Oikawa’s body, latching his mouth onto a perky nipple. He alternated between biting and sucking, unable to get enough of the slight saltiness of Oikawa’s skin, a byproduct of the summer heat.

Oikawa made a sound that went straight to Iwaizumi’s dick. He forced Iwaizumi off him and back down onto the mattress, removing his fingers as he shifted forward to align Iwaizumi’s cock with his entrance.

Iwaizumi squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that the image Oikawa presented would do him in right then. He swore as Oikawa descended, never fully prepared for the sudden tightness even when he knew it was coming.

He felt Oikawa flinch and instinctively told him to slow down, running a hand across Oikawa’s thigh as he willed his own hips to still. He should’ve known that Oikawa, the idiot, would take that as a challenge. “Dumbass,” he choked out, as Oikawa started lowering himself faster, all the way down until he had Iwaizumi buried deep inside of him. “Fuck,” Iwaizumi growled, “you’re so tight.”

“Tight and wet for you, Hajime,” Oikawa breathed, even throwing in a wink when he saw Iwaizumi meeting his gaze. As if to prove himself, he brought Iwaizumi’s thumb onto the tip of his cock, right over the slit where beads of precum had gathered. Iwaizumi cursed.

Denying him any breathing room, Oikawa started to move. He placed both hands on Iwaizumi as he gyrated his hips, moaning when Iwaizumi shifted so that every time Oikawa sat back down, Iwaizumi’s cock was angled straight at his prostate. When Oikawa has fully adjusted to Iwaizumi's size, he leaned back slightly, moving a hand back onto Iwaizumi’s leg for support, and picked up the pace.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi moaned, having been reduced to animalistic grunts and the occasional cry of the other man’s name.

Oikawa couldn’t say he was in much better shape. He whined, long and deep, as Iwaizumi decided to take control, gripping Oikawa’s hips so tight his tanned skin turned white under Iwaizumi’s touch. He drove furiously into Oikawa, who was chanting Iwaizumi's name above him almost incoherently. “Fuck, Hajime, fuck, don’t stop, fuck, fuck. I’m so close, Hajime.” 

Iwaizumi opened his eyes just in time to witness Oikawa’s fluttering shut involuntarily, lips parted as he lost himself in pleasure. Iwaizumi groaned as he wrapped a hand around Oikawa — his vision blurring over for a second when Oikawa clenched around him in response. He bit back a sound he was sure he didn’t want Oikawa to hear.

“You’re so fucking hot, Tooru,” Iwaizumi muttered almost inaudibly. It didn’t matter if Oikawa heard him. He felt like he was going to combust if he didn’t let _something_ out. 

Oikawa keened, somehow catching what Iwaizumi had said. “Hajime, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah," Iwaizumi panted. "Cum for me, baby.”

Oikawa whined as he tipped over, getting cum on Iwaizumi’s hand and onto the span of his chest.

Iwaizumi fucked Oikawa through it, eyes trained on him the whole time. His thrusts were unyielding even as Oikawa slumped down against him, smearing the wetness leaking from his cock across Iwaizumi’s chest. Iwaizumi breathed heavily at the sensation, wrapping both arms around his stupidly muscled body as he pulled him in closer to get a deeper angle. 

“Feels good, Hajime,” Oikawa whispered into his neck. 

Iwaizumi groaned, as he started thrusting erratically into Oikawa, slamming roughly one final time as his hips stuttered. 

They laid in silence, unmoving, until Oikawa pushed himself off Iwaizumi to snatch a box of tissues next to the bed, pulling a couple out himself to wipe off the wet spots on his chest before offering them up to Iwaizumi with a smile. Some of his hair fell over his face and Iwaizumi couldn’t help the fondness that seared his chest.

“It’s been three, long years, Iwa-chan,” he said, maintaining a light tone. Oikawa slid off Iwaizumi and settled down next to him in bed.

Ignoring the nuances of his statement, Iwaizumi snickered. The edge of his hand brushed against Oikawa’s. He hooked their little fingers tentatively and breathed out in hushed relief when he felt Oikawa curling back around him, reciprocating. “Not long enough for me to forget about the time you started crying during sex,” Oikawa whipped his head around in horror, “because you felt bad for—”

“Shut up!” He clamped down on Iwaizumi’s mouth with both hands, muffling Iwaizumi’s laughter at the storm Oikawa was blushing up. Iwaizumi pried two of Oikawa’s fingers off his face, allowing his voice to carry through a tiny slit. “Or what?” he asked cheekily.

Oikawa fumed, glaring daggers at Iwaizumi as he struggled fruitlessly to cover his mouth back up.

“I thought so,” Iwaizumi finished, laughing as Oikawa threw himself facedown into the pillow next to him.

The covers shifted beside Oikawa and, just like that, he knew what Iwaizumi was going to say next. “Tooru,” Iwaizumi started, somber all of a sudden, "can we start over?”

Burrowing out through his pillow and into another universe was an extremely appealing idea right now. He sighed when he confirmed, after a few seconds of trying, that it wasn’t a viable escape route. This was exactly why he didn’t want to meet up with Iwaizumi and hadn’t been planning on doing so until stupid, pink, flamingo-head Makki roped him into it.

“I’ve thought about it a lot the past three years,” Iwaizumi tried again, after having been met with no response, “and I still don’t know why we started drifting apart. I know you won’t tell me, but—”

Oikawa cut him off before he said something that would only further complicate things. He turned slightly so the pillow wasn’t smothering the lower half of his face. “Iwa-chan,” he sang, lightly and too casually, “I’m a bitter, selfish man. Even though I chose me, I wanted you to choose me too, and I was upset when you didn’t. That’s all.” His voice, like the set of his jaw, was hard. 

Iwaizumi frowned. “But I’ve always chosen you.”

“Nope,” Oikawa stated, shaking his head. “You chose Irvine. You chose Japan.”

Iwaizumi climbed up to his side to face Oikawa, leaning on his forearm. “Japan?” he asked as his frown deepened. “What do you—”

“Hajime,” he said, in his no-nonsense, volleyball captain voice, “how much longer would this have gone on for?” His gaze on the ceiling drifted in and out of focus. “The twelve hour time difference? The biyearly visits? Is there a future where we get to see each other everyday? Live with each other?” He paused, grimacing with the thought that he had already revealed too much. Ah, well, might as well go all the way then. “It’ll be less painful for us if we moved on sooner rather than later.”

“Was it?” Iwaizumi asked. Oikawa remained silent. Iwaizumi wasn’t sure if Oikawa had meant to show him, but when he flipped over, the answer was written on his face, plain as day. 

Oikawa threw a hand over his eyes, blocking out the light and Iwaizumi.

“Look, Hajime—”

“A truce,” Iwaizumi declared, not giving Oikawa the chance to finish.

“—A truce?” Oikawa repeated suspiciously. “What truce?”

“I’d like to call a truce. In the spirit of the Olympics, if you want,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Just for this month, can I have you back?”

_Adult Iwa-chan_ , Oikawa mused, _is surprisingly honest. With me and with himself._

“We won’t see each other for the next three years. Maybe longer,” Iwaizumi reasoned, resting back down next to Oikawa. It was easier to squash his faint hopes without having to look at Oikawa, even if he wasn’t looking back. “What’s there to lose? Besides, this will keep Makki off our asses for a while.”

Oikawa thought about it. It’s true that it would be annoying for Hanamaki to keep setting them up, which he was almost certain the other man would do until they were back on friendly terms with each other. It’s certainly also true that the one of the many things this truce could bring him was a lot of sex with Iwaizumi, something Oikawa has never seen as a loss. Whatever aftermath he would end up having to deal with was a problem for future Tooru, right?

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Guess I can’t lose you twice.”

“Not if I have a say,” Iwaizumi said, a little too seriously.

Oikawa ignored the sappy, honest man he could no longer call his Iwa-chan. He removed the hand from his eyes to stare at the off-white ceiling in silence, wondering if there would ever come a time when he would weigh forsaking years of trying to move on from Iwaizumi against a month with him and not think it was worth it.

“Okay,” he said at last, peering up at Iwaizumi from beneath his lashes. “I accept.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adult iwa is maturé
> 
> also, i'm planing on updating weekly (+/- a few days). would love to keep seeing you around 🖤


	2. July 10, 2021

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> past dubious consent between oikawa and an unnamed oc in the beginning. skip to "On his last exhale, Oikawa felt something stir beside him." to read past this part.
> 
> also oikawa and iwa at the salt flats is pretty much canon at this point right lmao

“Tooru?” A sleepy voice grumbled on the other end of the line. 

Oikawa was curled up under a weighted blanket, knees hugging close to his chest. His phone, the only source of light in his room with the blinds lowered, laid flat on the pillow next to his face. “I can’t do it,” he said. 

He heard ruffling before Iwaizumi, lacking any trace of the grogginess from before, rang through the speaker. “Are you okay?” he demanded. “What happened? Is it your knee?”

Oikawa laughed as if to play it off, but even to his ears it sounded bitter. He nuzzled further into the pillow, wiping away tears with each flutter of his eyelashes. There was a dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that stayed through the next morning and made them puffy. Not that he cared. It was meaningless to keep up appearances in front of teammates he couldn’t even understand. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What?” 

“I tried, Iwa-chan. But I just can’t fucking do it.” His thoughts were all jumbled up, but he still wanted Iwaizumi to have all of it. The good, the bad, the parts he didn’t understand. Wasn’t that the point? “I can’t move on from you.”

“Then don’t,” Iwaizumi said, as if it was that easy. “You’re not making any sense, Oikawa.”

Was he really going to make him say it? Fine. “I slept with someone else.” _And even though I asked him to fuck me, when he touched me it felt like spiders crawling up my skin. I was soft halfway through and I didn’t know whether or not to feel relieved when we called it a night because he looked at me like everyone had when I hurt my knee._

There was silence, and Oikawa pictured Iwa-chan sitting in bed looking stumped, maybe even a little sad. He could see the frown between his eyebrows, the way his lips pursed every so slightly. Oikawa wished he could jump through the phone and appear next to him. 

His voice, when he answered, was quiet. “Oh.”

“I hated it, obviously,” Oikawa continued, reassuring. Himself or Iwaizumi, he wasn't sure. “I miss you. I don’t know why—” 

“Tooru—”

Oikawa’s eyes flew open just as a tear rolled down his cheek. He took a few grounding breaths, reminding himself of the nine years that has transpired since then. He was no longer the young, naive boy who felt as though he had been taken advantage of; who went with the flow because he had no sense of direction. _Calm down_ , he told himself. _It’s going to be okay. You’re bigger than this._

On his last exhale, Oikawa felt something stir beside him. Curious, he turned to his left side and found himself staring right into steel-grey orbs. 

_Right_. He had almost forgotten inviting Iwa-chan to stay the night. 

“Morning,” Iwaizumi said, his neutral expression turning into a frown when he caught the dried trail down Oikawa’s cheek. “Are you crying?” 

The corner of Oikawa’s lips curled into a small smile. After all these years, the way concern sounded on Iwaizumi still hasn’t changed. “Bad dream,” he replied.

Iwaizumi hummed in acknowledgement before leaning in to give him a peck on the mouth. Oikawa returned it, a certain flutter in his insides making itself known. Suspended in the slant of the morning sun through a gap in the curtains, and the quiet thrums of a city awakening, Oikawa was content. 

Iwaizumi flashed him a grin as he pulled away. “I know just how to fix that.”

“Oh?” Oikawa said, faking feigned interest, because he was complicated like that. “Pray tell, Iwa-chan.”

“Go on a date with me,” he supplied, pushing himself up onto his forearm so he could look at Oikawa from a higher vantage point.

Oikawa had half a mind to headbutt Iwaizumi, convincing himself that the only reason he couldn’t go through with it was because it would hurt his delicate features more than whatever Iwaizumi was made out of. “Arrogance isn’t pretty on you, Iwa-chan. Honestly, you were cuter when you’d turn red just from holding my hand.” 

“Liar.”

“Ugh, fine, I think both Iwa-chans are cute.”

Iwaizumi smirked, “Try again.” Oikawa hushed the part of his mind that was swooning over the way easygoing confidence radiated from Iwaizumi. He faked a pout as his eyes darted away, before they inadvertently reveal truths that would give Iwaizumi the upper hand. “What do you wanna do?” he mumbled, resigned, as if going on date with Iwaizumi could be a chore.

When there was no response, Oikawa chanced a look at Iwaizumi, who was staring back at Oikawa like he wasn’t the one who suggested a date, who was staring back at Iwaizumi like he was the biggest idiot ever. 

“You haven’t thought this part through,” Oikawa said dryly, blowing a stray lock out of his eyes. 

Iwaizumi, who was seated now, back against the headboard, nodded solemnly with his hands crossed against his chest. “Nope,” he agreed. “I didn’t think you’d agree to the date.”

Oikawa sighed. “My mistake,” he said, a frown in place of where eighteen year old him would’ve pouted. Iwaizumi thought this was adorable too. Even more adorable was how Oikawa burrowed into Iwaizumi’s sides, rubbing his head against Iwaizumi’s thigh a few times as if to fully settle in. Iwaizumi caught himself resisting the urge to run his fingers through soft, brown locks, then wondered, in a moment of clarity, why he even bothered fighting it.

“See?” Iwaizumi accused, even as he dutifully played with Oikawa’s hair. “You _like_ it when I’m full of myself.”

“I like anything that reminds me of me.” Oikawa was practically purring.

“Trashykawa,” he said, fondly. “Do you have the whole day off?”

Gasping, Oikawa wrenched himself off Iwaizumi, his countenance a textbook example of betrayal. “I always fly in early to international matches when there’s a big time difference.” Oikawa said, disbelieving. “How do you not know this, Iwa-chan? Have you not been following Oikawa-san’s career?” 

“ _You_ broke up with _me_ , Shittykawa.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should?” Oikawa sounded genuinely confused. If it hadn’t been years since they last met, Iwaizumi would’ve socked him with a pillow. Today, he decided, he would be merciful, by which he meant he would burst out laughing. “Are you ever going to stop being so bratty?” 

Oikawa rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your drunken confession about how much you _looove_ when I'm a brat.”

“Oh, so you want to be my type?”

Oikawa flashed him a venomous smile. “Only in bed,” he said, not missing a beat. 

_You think you’re so_ —

Suddenly, Iwaizumi was right there: twinkle in his eyes, self-assured smile, sculpted chest. His finger was drawing circles on the bare skin of Oikawa’s back, making him shudder. “Guess I figured out what we’re doing today, then.”

— _smooth, Iwa-chan. Fuck._

Oikawa smashed his mouth onto Iwaizumi’s so he wouldn’t have to look at the way Iwaizumi was smiling at him like he’d won.

—

“Seriously, though,” Oikawa said, after an indeterminate number of minutes, “what are we doing today?” 

Iwaizumi rolled off him, gathering up the balls of soiled tissue on their duvet before making his way to the bathroom. He tossed them into the open trashcan along with a tied up condom. “Should we hit up the touristy spots?” 

Oikawa made a face. “I’ve done that hundreds of times,” he whined. “Take me to the local gems, Iwa-chan. Show me your favorite bar and where you go to get overpriced coffee, stuff like that.”

Iwaizumi peeked out of the bathroom. Oikawa heard the water running behind him. “Are you sure?” he asked. “That sounds kinda boring.” 

“Oh, please. I’m a man who knows what I want, Hajime.” Oikawa glanced up coyly at Iwaizumi from under his eyelashes, throwing in a wink in case he had somehow missed the innuendo.

Iwaizumi hit him back with a grave stare. “If you don’t stop messing with me, we’re never going to make it out of here.”

Oikawa laughed, silvery, like wind chimes in the summer. This was the one Oikawa let out when something mundane, something so small that it shouldn’t please a man of his calibre, did anyway. Iwaizumi tucked the sound into a crevice in his mind, not minding at all that he was small and mundane. “God, Iwa-chan, what a brute. At least take me out to lunch first.” 

Iwaizumi seemed to consider it. “I’ll feed you either way,” he said carefully, straight face disclosing nothing. “But I think it’ll really add to our date if you joined me in the shower.” 

Oikawa needed no more prodding; could only pretend like he didn’t also want it for so long anyway. He sauntered off the bed. “If you _insist_ ,” he said, looming over Iwaizumi. As if this, too, could ever be a chore. “I guess I have no choice.” 

—

“Where are you taking me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asked as soon as they left the hotel, hand in Iwaizumi’s. 

Iwaizumi couldn’t help but smile at the excitement in his voice, a stark contrast to the man who had been pounding mercilessly into him in the shower, or the one writhing under him in bed before that. “Lunch, as promised. What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” Oikawa singsonged. 

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. His life would be so much easier if he could bottle up whatever was making Oikawa so pliant and use it on him every time he was being a little shit. “Sushi?” he suggested. 

“Okay!” 

The walk over was brisk and mostly quiet, in the way people who knew each other inside out were content to just be. Every now and then, Oikawa would offer up a comment on something he thought was charming, something he could never find in Argentina, and Iwaizumi would swipe his thumb across Oikawa’s knuckles and make a non-committal noise in response. 

When Iwaizumi finally announced their arrival, Oikawa halted, turning to inspect the property. It wasn’t shabby, but definitely weathered. The wooden sliding door showed clear signs of erosion in a few spots. He nudged it aside gingerly, creating an opening wide enough for the both of them to file in, one at a time, ducking under the store’s fabric sign as they passed through. 

The voice that welcomed them inside felt like a throwback to a lifetime ago. “Oho ho ho?” Oikawa watched as the man slithered out of his chair and crossed the tiny interior in three large steps.

“Kuroo, my man,” Iwaizumi said from next to Oikawa, free hand reaching out to grab Kuroo’s in greeting. 

He drawled, punctuating each syllable, “Iwaizumi.” He fixed his gaze at the pair of hands still firmly intertwined, “And the infamous Oikawa Tooru.” 

Oikawa turned to look at Iwaizumi, an eyebrow raised.

“Shut up,” he snapped, before Oikawa could even ask why he was infamous, then whipped around to face Kuroo. “You too.”

Kuroo laughed, like the maniac he was. “But this is such a rare opportunity! Come, sit with us.” He gestured at a table where Kenma was already seated, engrossed in a game. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about your darling Iwa-chan’s college career, in exchange for whatever dirt you can provide on this spotless man.”

Oikawa practically skipped over, even letting go of Iwaizumi’s hand when he wouldn't budge. Iwaizumi growled. Somehow, it felt like the chaotic energy brought about by these two amounted to much more than the sum of their respective chaotic energy.

“Did he ever cry over me?” was the first thing Oikawa asked once he was settled into his chair. A sadistic yet possibly masochistic question; even Kuroo had to admit it was bold. However...

Kuroo planted both elbows on the table, clasping his fingers together in unadulterated joy. “Yes,” he confirmed, eyes sparkling. “All the time.” Sadistic, then.

“Tell me more,” Oikawa said, the same shine in his eyes. 

“Hey, Kenma,” Iwaizumi said, sliding into the chair next to Oikawa’s. Kenma grunted in response. 

“This one time,” Kuroo started, “well, I guess he didn’t _technically_ cry, but it’s my favorite story to tell.” Oikawa’s eyebrows shot up. Nekoma’s middle blocker went around telling stories that maximized Iwaizumi’s suffering and embarrassment? They were going to be great friends. “In our first year, during one of our first practices, he showed up to practice all mopey. Oh, we met through the volleyball team in college, in case you didn’t know.” Oikawa made a face, as if there was a universe in which he _wouldn’t_ know.

“Of course. My bad. Anyway, he looked so sad that I took pity on him, a stranger at the time—”

“Really wish we had stayed that way now,” Iwaizumi muttered next to Oikawa. 

Kuroo grinned, “—and asked him what’s gotten him down. Guess what he said?”

Oikawa was leaning so far forward he was almost floating off his chair. “What?”

“‘The person I like hooked up with someone else.’ He was crouched on the floor, head in his hands like this.” Kuroo moved to demonstrate. “‘Person you like?’ I asked him. ‘Is it that setter of yours, Oika,’ and before I could finish the sentence, he just yelled suuuper loudly like he was possessed. In the gym. In the middle of practice.”

“Oh my god,” Oikawa breathed.

“I had to drag him to practice for a whole month after that because he was too embarrassed to go.”

“Oh my god,” he repeated. “Iwa-chan, was this after I called you up really late that one time crying?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he hissed. 

“Oh my god,” Oikawa said. Third time’s the charm. “You were so calm on the phone, telling me not to feel guilty. I had no idea you were even upset.”

Iwaizumi looked at him like he was the lowest scum on Earth. “That’s because you’re a self-absorbed bastard.” 

Kuroo burst out laughing, instinctively slapping Kenma’s arm gleefully. Beside him, Kenma’s console emitted a sad noise. He looked up at Kuroo in irritation and was met with a cheeky grin, even as Kuroo’s hand moved to pat his head.

The server came to take their orders then. Iwaizumi was volunteered by Oikawa and Kuroo to go first since he was the only one who had taken a look at the menu in a futile attempt to escape the constant torment that was his life with Oikawa and Kuroo simultaneously in it. Iwaizumi shot them a dirty glare as he told her what he wanted. He supposed he could at least save one innocent soul from having to deal with the both of them, even if it was too late for himself. 

Lunch was enjoyed through a lot of conversation in a similar vein, though Iwaizumi couldn’t really bring himself to stop Kuroo from airing out his dirty laundry when Oikawa was massaging his cheeks from laughing so hard, even if it was at Iwaizumi’s expense. He did allow himself a small sigh when Oikawa and Kuroo traded their contact information, already feeling a headache coming on at the thought of the two most troublesome people in his life scheming behind his back.

“So,” Oikawa said breezily, after waving his new best friend off. They were back outside the restaurant, standing way too close for the heat. Iwaizumi found that he didn’t mind it too much. “Even you feel sad sometimes.” 

Iwaizumi’s gaze slid onto the ground as he was suddenly mystified by the different angles he could scuff the tip of his shoes against the sidewalk. How the fuck was he supposed to respond to that?

Oikawa’s face softened. “I thought I was the only one who cared enough to cry. I’m relieved, to be honest.” He paused, as if reconsidering his words. “That sounds really bad.”

At that, Iwaizumi scoffed. That, he could work with. “I already know you have a shitty personality.” 

Oikawa was smiling again. “You love me anyway,” he said, the words slipping past him before he could stop himself. It was a force of habit, just another one of Oikawa’s many redundant expressions voiced for the explicit reason of having Iwaizumi confirm what he already knew. But now, he realized too late, it was no longer redundant. His eyes flitted hesitantly toward the other man. 

Iwaizumi looked conflicted, lips twisting around a silent echo of the past. _Shittykawa_ , he was supposed to say, in agreement. Oikawa’s smile grew tight. “Where to next, Iwa-chan?” he asked, a not-so-clever diversion. 

Iwaizumi sighed. “You pick.” 

They spent the next couple hours mostly window shopping. The one thing they bought, at Oikawa’s request, was ice cream. He had insisted that they couldn’t go without one on a cute summer date, and what was Iwaizumi’s biggest flaw if not giving in to Oikawa’s every whim?

“Eight out of ten,” Oikawa said, when Iwaizumi was signing the check for their takeout order. “Maybe seven and a half for skimping on dinner.” 

“What?” Iwaizumi asked distractedly, occupied with the effort of using only his right hand to stuff a card back into his wallet while his left hand clutched a bag of food. Oikawa took it off him benevolently, freeing up both his hands.

“The date,” Oikawa said, like it should be obvious. “I’m giving you a satisfaction survey. Also, I should mention I bumped it up by two points only because it’s Iwa-chan. With anyone else, this would’ve been abysmal.” 

“You’ll take that back once you taste the food. Also,” Iwaizumi challenged, “who says it’s over?” 

Oikawa tilted his head to the side, squinting as the setting sun that Iwaizumi’s height was previously blocking threatened to blind him. “It’s not?” 

Iwaizumi checked his watch. “Come on,” he said, extending a hand. Oikawa took it obediently. “We have a train to catch.”

—

After the two hour train ride out of Tokyo, the twenty minutes by bus, and another ten by foot, it was already pretty dark out when they finally arrived at their destination: a natural reserve of some sort, where hills with overgrown greenery circled a clear lake. 

Iwaizumi led them up one of these hills, the tallest of the bunch, navigating their surroundings with surprising ease. The way he sidestepped a boulder like he knew it was going to be there or told Oikawa to watch out right as he was about to walk into a pothole left Oikawa wondering why he would frequent a park so far away from the city, and how he even found the time between classes, volleyball and now work. 

“Iwa-chan,” he whined, trying to contain his shriek as a stray branch brushed against his pants, easily mistaken for something else, “where are we?” 

“We're by a lake,” he answered, keeping his attention on the ground. He had a hand around Oikawa’s wrist, trudging the both of them steadily upward. Oikawa fumbled with the flashlight on his phone, hoping the sparse light would make things easier for Iwaizumi. “Above one, technically.”

When they reached the top of the hill, a small, self-satisfied smile crept onto Iwaizumi’s face. Oikawa dug his heels in as he tried not to let it tempt him into doing something uncharacteristically sentimental. 

“I can see that,” Oikawa said dryly. “But why?”

Iwaizumi sat down and beckoned Oikawa to join him, patting the grassy spot next to him. 

Oikawa scrunched up his face. “I’m wearing _white_ pants, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. He emptied the contents of the takeout bag so he could use it as a faux-blanket and placed it down next to him. “How ‘bout now, Your Majesty?” he snarked. 

Oikawa huffed and puffed but sat down next to him anyway. By the time he had adjusted the tiny bag so that the entirety of his backside was protected, Iwaizumi was already lying on his back, hands crossed behind his head. “Look up, Tooru,” he said, so softly it was almost a whisper, and Oikawa must be stupid because, wow, how could he have missed this the entire way over? 

The night was a heavy blanket strewn with glittering constellations. He distinctly remembered the last two times he had witnessed such a sight: back when he had visited Iwaizumi in California, in his second year of college, and they had gone on a night hike, and the time after that when Iwaizumi had visited him in Argentina and he had taken a few days off so they could travel to the salt flats in Bolivia. Oikawa had been ready to marry him that night and had told him just as much, and tonight, Oikawa’s breath caught in his throat, he was a little lightheaded at the thought of what Iwaizumi was really showing him. 

“They remind me of you,” came a small voice from beside him. 

“Shut up,” Oikawa said, his voice sounding suspiciously like it was starting to crack. He plopped down unceremoniously on his back next to Iwaizumi, no longer caring if he was going to ruin his clothes. He felt Iwaizumi’s pinky tentatively curling around his again and impatiently grabbed his whole hand, as if that would help squash the blossoming in his chest. “Why Japan?” he managed through gritted teeth. “Why are you doing this,” he gestured grandly, “asking me for a truce, acting like you want me back,” he kept going even as he saw Iwaizumi wince out of the corner of his eyes, “when you left?” 

Iwaizumi’s hand alternated between going lax and tightening in Oikawa’s grip. He licked his lips, mouth feeling dry all of a sudden. “I… don’t know,” he muttered lamely. “Japan is home,” he said, the same way everyone in Oikawa’s life had asked him how he could throw his entire life away just to play in Argentina, just for volleyball. But volleyball has never been _just_ anything to him. He thought Iwaizumi, of all people, would understand. “Isn’t it?” 

Oikawa withdrew his hand, wiping his palm on the pocket of his hoodie. “Sweaty,” he whined, looking past Iwaizumi even as he made a face at him. He sat up and grabbed one of the bento boxes, prying the plastic lid off with shaky hands. “What did you get us anyway?” He uncovered the chopsticks from their paper sheath, cursing when they slipped out of his fingers as he tried to pull them apart. 

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said, then firmer when he didn't respond, “Tooru." His hand was back on Oikawa’s as he scrambled to a seated position. Half of Oikawa wanted to swat it away, but the other half won out. “Look, I don’t know how the past three years have been for you. I get why you stopped talking to me. I get it here,” he pointed at his head, a finger on his temple, “but not here,” the finger shifted to his sternum. “And trust me, I tried.” He moved his free hand to cup Oikawa’s face, noting even in the midst of all this how warm his cheek felt. “I’m not asking anything of you, Tooru. Just the month. If you want to go back to pretending like we’re strangers again after the Olympics, then by all means, do it.” 

Oikawa finally turned to look at Iwaizumi, eyes unmistakably misty. Just as Iwaizumi was about to make a smart comment, Oikawa slid a hand around the back of his neck and drew him in, lips meeting Iwaizumi’s. Oikawa tugged on his lower lip, and Iwaizumi parried by driving his tongue deep into Oikawa’s open mouth. They were breathing heavier than usual when Oikawa pulled away. “Honestly, though,” Iwaizumi continued, “if it hurts either way, can’t we just hurt together instead of separately?” 

“The idea,” Oikawa said dryly, “is that it’ll stop hurting eventually.” 

“It’s been—”

Oikawa groaned, his head falling against Iwaizumi’s chest with a soft thump. “I’m capable of keeping time, Iwa-chan. But we’ve had this talk five billion times now. We’ve come to the same conclusion every time and there’s five billion other things I’d rather be doing with you right now.” Iwaizumi shifted to face Oikawa, wrapping both arms around him. He nestled his face into Oikawa’s hair. “Like what?” he asked, voice slightly muffled.

“Eat,” Oikawa stated, stealing Iwaizumi’s chopsticks. He pulled them apart successfully this time. 

“That’s one.” Iwaizumi drew in a long breath, secretly taking pleasure in how Oikawa smelled. Gardenia and sandalwood; floral yet musky. Ah, how he’s missed this. “What about the other four billion nine hundred ninety-nine million—”

“Suck you off,” Oikawa continued, as if reading an item off his grocery list.

“That’s two—” When the words finally registered, Iwaizumi staggered backward so quickly he felt the whiplash. “Wait, what?” He squeaked. And then, courtesy of his unthinking brain, “Here?” 

Oikawa let out an obscene moan, and Iwaizumi almost jumped out of his skin. “This chirashi bowl is _good_ good.” There was no god, Iwaizumi thought, because god would not let him fall for his childhood best friend who said shit like that as if they didn’t just have a moment. The same childhood best friend who also moved to Argentina as soon as they got together. What the fuck? Iwaizumi sighed. 

“Catch,” he said, instead of everything else. Oikawa saw a blob of something he couldn’t quite make out in the dark, yelping even as he caught it out of reflex. Argentinian star setter and all that. “What’s this?” he asked, staring at it curiously. Somehow, it felt right in his hands, like it was where it belonged. The lightness, the polished packaging — this was something his hands were used to. Oikawa squinted. Could it be…?

He brought it up to the light from his phone to make sure. “Iwa-chan,” he whispered. "Is this what I think it is?"

“Oh my god,” Iwaizumi said, disbelieving, “ _this_ is what actually makes you cry?”

“You bought me milk bread!” Oikawa exclaimed, even more disbelieving. “I think I deserve to shed a happy tear or two. When did you even buy this?” 

“When you were looking at the—”

“The shoes!” Oikawa nodded, as if to himself. “Of course. You would never go shopping with me unless you had something up your sleeve.” Iwaizumi scowled, punching the side of his arm with less force than Oikawa deserved. “That’s not true. I’ve probably racked up hundreds of hours in Shopping with Oikawa Tooru.”

Oikawa stuck his tongue out as he tore the packaging open, ignoring Iwaizumi’s jab in favor of devouring his favorite snack. Iwaizumi took the opportunity to steal Oikawa’s chopsticks and start eating his dinner, quite hungry himself. “You haven’t changed at all, Crappykawa.” 

“Neither have you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa shot back. Instead of answering, Iwaizumi fished out a few of his Wagyu cuts and dropped them silently onto Oikawa’s bowl. He took a piece of shrimp in return. Looking at his face, anyone would think that he had gotten the better half of the deal. 

“Okay, stop,” Oikawa said, pulling his meal away as Iwaizumi tried to give him a slice of fresh tuna. “Why are you so nice to me tonight?”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “Probably because I haven’t seen you in a while.” He grinned. “The novelty hasn’t worn off yet.” 

Oikawa narrowed his eyes. “And here I was, about to reward you for your good behavior. A shame, Iwa-chan~” Iwaizumi stopped trying to understand how he was acting like this when he was acting the complete opposite just five minutes ago. Was he faking it? Not as far as Iwaizumi could tell. Still, what Oikawa said definitely piqued his interest. “What kind of reward are we talking?” he asked, a hair away from straight up blurting out, _Sucking me off?_

Now, it was Oikawa’s turn to grin. He shuffled closer so his lips were right by Iwaizumi’s ear. “What kind of reward are you thinking?” he whispered. 

Iwaizumi swallowed as he felt a hand snaking down his chest to settle on his waistband, fingers tracing the line of hair leading downward dangerously. “It’s not my fault _you_ suggested it,” he said, sounding defeated even to himself.

“I can’t help it. Iwa-chan’s soft side just turns me on so much. Besides,” Oikawa reasoned, “you didn’t just waste three hours of my life traveling to a secluded area just to eat dinner, did you?”

Iwaizumi groaned. “ _This_ is why I’m forced to be mean to you.” 

“Behind the trees,” Oikawa said, jutting his chin at the trees in question. He smiled winningly, eyelids fluttering, and if Iwaizumi had any doubts about the proposition, well, they were gone now. “Come on, Iwa-chan,” he whined. “You know I'll make you feel so good.”

When Iwaizumi remained silent, only allowing himself a long exhale, Oikawa knew it was his decisive victory. He stood up and made his way to the most overgrown area in the vicinity, not waiting to see if Iwaizumi would follow; knowing he would. 

Sure enough, when Oikawa finally turned around after coming across a nice, wide tree, Iwaizumi was hot on his heels. Iwaizumi made a mental note to pack up dinner later, _after_ , as he cleared his throat, eyes pointedly fixed on the ground next to Oikawa’s feet. “So,” he started, “how—”

Oikawa thought, as he pushed Iwaizumi down with both hands on his shoulders, that as much as he liked confident Iwa-chan, this was good too. Really good. “Shh,” he soothed gently as he kneeled between Iwaizumi’s legs, white pants be damned. “Just let me do the work, Hajime.” 

There was no preamble as Oikawa went straight for the button of his jeans, then the zipper. He was pleased to find that Iwaizumi was half-hard beneath his underwear. Iwaizumi tugged on Oikawa’s hair, as if to lift him toward him, and Oikawa followed obediently. Their lips touched, and the kiss was explosive, a wet mess of tongues struggling for control. When Oikawa finally surrendered, a translucent string trailing between their mouths, it was without regret. 

“Time for dessert,” he said, not realizing he had uttered it aloud until he heard Iwaizumi sputter. Oikawa smiled from beside Iwaizumi’s now fully hard length, and Iwaizumi has never been more turned on at the idea that someone who looked like they were going to devour his dick was about to put all of it in their mouth. 

Oikawa swallowed him whole, and Iwaizumi threw a hand across his mouth in a futile attempt to conceal his moans, and by extension, their very public activity. How Oikawa was able to do that every time with no warm-up, he would never know. 

His leg jerked helplessly as Oikawa swirled his tongue around his head, somehow getting the action in every time he drew back. Oikawa brought a hand to fondle his balls even as his mouth worked Iwaizumi mercilessly, and when he opened his eyes to stare right into Oikawa’s — who had absolutely no right to look like he was made to do this — it was all he could do to ball his hands into fists and _not_ think about holding Oikawa down and wrecking his throat.

As if he had read his mind, Oikawa pulled away and said, “Fuck me, Hajime. Use me.”

Iwaizumi growled, wishing he could wipe the smirk off Oikawa’s face when he slipped his hands into Oikawa’s hair and finally drove his cock down his throat. Oikawa moaned around him, and Iwaizumi’s toes curled in his shoes, scraping against the padded sole. 

“Fuck, Tooru,” he cried, doing his best to stave off the building pressure. “You, fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Oikawa tipped his head back in response, allowing Iwaizumi to enter him deeper, and all Iwaizumi could do was moan and comply. Oikawa caught Iwaizumi’s eyes then, and he had to squeeze them shut because the primal possessiveness he saw in Oikawa’s gaze almost tipped him over, and he wanted this to last as long as he could make it.

Oikawa pressed against Iwaizumi’s hands, and when Iwaizumi let go, he withdrew slightly to focus his efforts on the engorged head. He sucked and lapped up all his precum, licking where he knew Iwaizumi was most sensitive. He brought a hand around the rest of Iwaizumi’s cock, and in a few pumps Iwaizumi was coming, hot bursts of bitter fluid filling up Oikawa’s mouth. 

He pulled away once he’s certain he’s milked Iwaizumi dry, swallowing before licking his lips exaggeratedly. 

“Fuck,” was all Iwaizumi could say as he threw his head back against the trunk. Oikawa tried not to cringe from secondhand pain.

When Iwaizumi reached out for Oikawa’s unattended cock, Oikawa caught his hand, halting its motion. “Not now, Iwa-chan,” he shook his head. His voice was rough and Iwaizumi was both apologetic and aroused, as much as one could be post-orgasm. “Later, when we get back,” Oikawa elaborated. “Properly.”

Iwaizumi felt his traitorous dick twitch at the thought of a fourth round, even as his mind was telling him the appropriate response was to cry. 

—

In the comfortable, almost intimate solitude of a late-night train, the brush of their shoulders brought Oikawa back to high school. They would travel everywhere together: to games, training camps, social events, and sitting side by side like this every time, Oikawa had been afraid to cross the line where he ended and Iwaizumi began. 

It was a terrible time, back before they started dating. Oikawa went through each day feeling like he might die from an unrequited crush for the best friend he grew up and did everything with, and wanted to do even more with. His heart would jump at the smallest gestures. Things which were innocuous before, like girls, specifically girls Iwa-chan found attractive, were now the bane of his existence. Things which were inconsequential before, like shirtless Iwa-chan, were now the focus of his fantasies. 

But this, what they had right now: the wanting and not giving; the constant tugging from both ends. If anyone had told him in high-school that this was how they’d turn out to be in ten years, even after they dated, he would’ve laughed in their faces.

Oikawa sighed, sliding down in his seat so he could fit his head in the nook of Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “I wish we could stay like this forever,” he mumbled. Iwaizumi threaded their fingers together, tightly, and planted a kiss on his forehead, eyes lingering on Oikawa for a long time after.

“Me too," he said.


	3. July 20, 2021

**iwa-chan ❤️** 🦍✨ **_3:42PM 7/19/2021_** ** _  
_** dinner?

 **crappykawa** ** _4:09PM 7/19/2021_ ** **_  
_ **practice (｡╯︵╰｡)

 **iwa-chan ❤️🦍✨** ** _4:10PM 7/19/2021_ ** **_  
_ **can i come over after?

 **crappykawa** ** _4:10PM 7/19/2021_ ** ****  
wow iwa-chan, u must miss me lots  
i’ll let u know when we’re done w practice!!

That was hours ago. Almost a whole quarter of a day ago. Oikawa sat at the edge of his bed, his head full of questions like: did Iwa-chan miss the text he sent after practice? Should he try sending him another message, even if it meant pulling a dreaded triple text? Most importantly, when did Iwa-chan become someone he couldn’t triple text?

Oikawa sighed, plopping back down in bed. These days, he’s mostly gotten used to all the traveling, but as he stared up at the ceiling, he remembered why he used to hate away games so much. It's the hotel rooms. They were always so aesthetically yet clinically designed. He curled up into a fetal position on his left side so he could keep his eyes on the door, in case Iwaizumi decided to show up.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, there were three knocks on the door, simple and steady. “Oi,” came a voice from outside. Oikawa’s eyes jolted open. “Shittykawa, are you asleep?”

Oikawa moved to unlock the door. He kept the chain latch attached and peeked through the small space that’s opened up between his room and the outside, as if he couldn’t tell from his voice, or how he addressed him, or the silly nickname, that it was none other than his Iwa-chan. As if he had to make sure his tired mind wasn’t playing games on him, and there was a real, living, breathing Iwaizumi waiting for him outside.

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to let me in?”

Oikawa slammed the door back shut. Both eyebrows were up now. Iwaizumi heard a flurry of noises coming from beyond, and then the door was back open, wide enough for him to fit through this time.

“Come in, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, smiling.

“Are you okay?” Iwaizumi asked as he stepped inside.

“Fine~”

“Are you sure?" Iwaizumi gave Oikawa a once over, and he had to fight the urge to fidget. "You seem, I don’t know, weirder than usual.” He frowned when Oikawa said nothing in response to the obvious insult. "Hey, if you’re tired or whatever, I can—”

“I was just thinking about how it feels like like I’m your secret mistress, meeting up with you late at night in a discreet hotel room,” Oikawa blurted out, before his mind could keep up with his words. Color filled his face. His life flashed before his eyes. He vowed to never see anyone after a full day of Olympics practice ever again.

Iwaizumi threw his head back laughing. “Secret mistress, huh?” he said, wiping the corner of his eyes with a finger. He watched with amusement as Oikawa tried to cover up his embarrassment with a pout. “That fits your image, Tooru. Although, I don’t know why I’d keep you a secret, or just as a mistress.” Oikawa’s eyes, still trained on Iwaizumi, narrowed when he extended his arms in a clear offering of peace. As if he was that easy.

“Fine,” Iwaizumi sighed, making his way over to Oikawa. So dramatic, as usual. Iwaizumi reached his arms back out once he’s made his way over. “Can’t you at least meet me a tenth of the way?”

Oikawa flung himself against Iwaizumi, fists slamming lightly against Iwaizumi’s chest. “Ugh,” he groaned. "I hate you." His hands were met with hard muscle, and even though he should’ve had his fill of mid-twenties, no longer a ball of awkward hormones Iwaizumi Hajime for the past week or so, feeling his sculpted body through a flimsy shirt like this still did things to Oikawa. He licked his lips. He was tired, but maybe if it was a quick one...

“Needy,” Iwaizumi said affectionately, blissfully oblivious to Oikawa’s internal dilemma. He wrapped his arms around Oikawa. “Sorry I’m late. Practice went on for longer than usual, and I had to—”

“I know,” Oikawa said. “Of course you were busy. Why would you willingly put off spending time with the great Oikawa-san, star-setter of Argentina, most handsome, likeable man you’ll ever have the honor of meeting in this lifetime and the next otherwise?”

Iwaizumi smiled. “Yeah, I wouldn’t.”

“You… what?” Oikawa had been ready to hit Iwaizumi with a witty comeback, but that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. He cleared his throat. “You’re awfully nice again today, Iwa-chan.”

“So are you, forgiving me just like that,” Iwaizumi countered easily. “Maybe we’re getting old.”

He grabbed Oikawa's hand and maneuvered the both of them to bed. Once they were settled in nicely, with Oikawa’s head nestled against his chest, Iwaizumi asked, “What do you want to do?” He had to pull away slightly so he wasn’t feeding himself a spoonful of Oikawa’s hair with each word, but the idiot — and of course he meant that in the most affectionate way possible — only followed him closer.

“Hm,” Oikawa glanced at the clock, and Iwaizumi felt another pang of guilt at coming over so late. "Maybe we can watch an episode of something? Or play a quick game?”

“Sure. One of your shitty alien shows?”

Was what he said. Yet, here was Oikawa, swathing his whole neck with sweatproof concealer at sunrise the next day. Honestly, this was a bit much, even if it was, according to Iwaizumi, a birthday special.

“Twenty seven kisses for twenty seven years,” he had said, while Oikawa had pretended to resist the incoming onslaught. “Kisses are one thing, Iwa-chan, but this—” and Iwaizumi had shut him up with another one on his lips.

Oikawa couldn’t deny it was flattering. Especially because Iwaizumi had paused the show they were watching to wish him a happy birthday right as the date changed. The idea that Iwaizumi had walked into his hotel room with a plan for midnight, birthday sex stoked a special kind of fire within him.

A pleased overlay slipped onto Oikawa’s features as his thoughts started to stray into last night territory. His Iwa-chan had always been all muscle, but it was like he had double the muscles now. Actually, Oikawa was pretty sure that statement was scientifically factual. Everything, and Oikawa meant _everything_ , was leaner, firmer, bigger.

Oikawa slapped himself on both cheeks. Practice was already going to be painful today without extra punishment for being late and he had to leave five minutes ago.

He crept toward the door, undoing the double locks slowly so he wouldn’t wake Iwaizumi up. He stole one last glance at the man in his bed: covers thrown haphazardly off his body to reveal his chiseled pecs, and, oh, the way his abs had tensed and shivered under Oikawa’s tongue—

 _Stop!!!_ he chastised, screaming internally until his thoughts returned to the present. He pulled his gaze away reluctantly from Iwaizumi as he took a step outside, firmly closing the door behind him.

—

Team Japan was piling out of their designated gym looking as dead as they felt after a particularly grueling practice session when Kageyama glanced over at Iwaizumi’s direction. Just as he suspected, the man was still hunched over his phone, looking extremely absorbed in whatever was happening behind the screen.

For as long as Kageyama has known him — a few years now since he signed on with the Adlers as their athletic trainer, and the brief period of time they spent together in middle school — Iwaizumi had never been the type to check his phone religiously. Something was amiss.

“You’re texting _him_ , aren’t you?” Kageyama accused, peering up from the bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat, curtaining over his eyes.

Iwaizumi hummed distractedly, eyes still glued to the device in his hands. The corner of his mouth twitched as his phone buzzed, prompting his fingers to fly furiously across the device. “Who?”

“You know who,” Kageyama said, and then, “Oikawa-san,” when his first attempt failed to elicit a response. He said the name like he wasn’t sure he had permission to say it, which, to be fair, if Oikawa was at liberty to dole out name vocalization passes, Kageyama would definitely not have gotten one. Or maybe he would’ve, if only for Oikawa to watch him squirm every time he had to say the name. That certainly sounded like something Oikawa would do, Kageyama thought darkly. For a while, his least favorite post-game interviews had been when they would ask him to comment on Oikawa’s game or analyze a play, given their history. He had never been more grateful for Ushijima when he taught him he could always supply a non-answer by saying, “No comment.”

“Oh, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi agreed. “Yeah. What about him?”

Kageyama narrowed his eyes at Iwaizumi’s casual admittance. As much as he respected, and even _liked_ , Iwaizumi, shouldn’t this be… illegal? How could Team Japan’s own Athletic Trainer be sharing trade secrets so blatantly with an opponent? Never mind if they were high school teammates or, Kageyama pursed his lips, something more.

“Isn’t that—” he managed before he was cut off by a sweetly placating voice. “There, there, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa chimed, having materialized out of thin air. He threw an arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulder as he wagged a finger at Kageyama’s face. Kageyama took two steps back out of instinct, and Oikawa marveled with no small amount of glee at how Kageyama was still, rightly, intimidated by him after all this time. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

Iwaizumi scoffed. “Says you.” He put his phone away for the first time since practice started to take a good look at Oikawa. His usually impeccable locks were slick with sweat and his shirt, under the blue of Team Argentina’s jacket, was equally drenched. He ran his free hand through his hair and left it looking gelled. Styled, even. Iwaizumi sighed. Oikawa, who still looked perfectly fuckable like this, was truly the pinnacle of inequality.

Oikawa took offense. “Everything looks good on me, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and Kageyama did his best to control his laughter and urge to do the same. He wondered for an unhealthily long time after that how Iwaizumi could do these things to Oikawa and come out unscathed, but for now, there was a mess of emotions overwhelming him and he didn’t know how to process all of it at once, so he decided he wouldn’t. “I’m going to go now,” he stammered, bowing hastily at the both of them before backing away. “It was nice seeing you, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa waved, the genuine smile on his face derived from Kageyama’s misery.

Iwaizumi leaned into the warmth grazing his back. “Happy birthday, asshole,” he said, and out of his mouth the word _asshole_ seemed to have taken up a completely different meaning. “Shouldn’t you be old enough to stop teasing the poor kid like that?”

Just as Oikawa was about to respond, a bundle of orange flew into his vision, jumping into the air as his limbs splayed out wildly. “Could it be!” sunshine incarnate exclaimed, mouth a wide O-shape. “The Grand King!”

“Shouyou,” Oikawa greeted cheerfully, pulling away from Iwaizumi to give Hinata a proper hug. Iwaizumi adjusted his balance, trying not to think about how much colder it was all of a sudden. He frowned.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hinata said, visibly perking up. “Happy birthday!”

Oikawa blinked, tilting his head slightly to one side. “Thanks, but how did you know?”

“Iwaizumi-san—” he said, before his jaw slammed shut and he honest to god started shrinking into himself. Oikawa winced at the impact and tried not to imagine what kind of face Iwaizumi was torturing Hinata with behind him, “—just wished you a happy birthday, and I overheard,” he finished lamely.

Oikawa turned to raise an eyebrow at Iwaizumi. “What?” Iwaizumi snapped.

Thankfully, Oikawa didn’t pursue the subject, choosing instead to ask Hinata about how his prep was going. When they touched upon the topic of Iwaizumi’s custom training regime, tailored to each of Team Japan’s players, Hinata slyly sidestepped specifying anything by complaining about how hungry he was, and how he really had to go now. He smiled cheekily as Oikawa rolled his eyes, completely aware of what Hinata was doing.

By the time Hinata was bouncing away merrily, the rest of the team had long since dispersed, leaving only Oikawa and Iwaizumi to stand outside the gym. Iwaizumi shoved his hands into the pocket of his pants, refusing to look at Oikawa. “You can just _ask_ , you know.”

Oikawa grinned, ducking below Iwaizumi’s chin to catch his gaze. “Will you really make one for me? Like the good old days?” He couldn’t get over how embarrassed Iwaizumi was when it came to his work. He reached out to lightly pinch the tip of Iwaizumi’s left ear and felt weirdly giddy at how warm they were. Iwaizumi smacked his hand away. “Of course, dumbass.” He kicked a loose gravel in the direction of Oikawa’s foot, scowling when it fell short of his target. “Also, you better act surprised.”

“Hm?” Oikawa asked, straightening himself. “What surprise?”

Iwaizumi clicked his tongue. _There’s no way he didn’t catch on_ , he thought, yet still foolishly held on hope as he lifted his head to look at Oikawa. Sure enough, when their eyes met, the brown of his irises were twinkling, all-knowing.

Iwaizumi scowled again.

—

True to his word, when Oikawa all but sauntered into Iwaizumi’s apartment with his hands over Oikawa’s eyes — “Blindfold me, Iwa-chan,” he had suggested with a wink, smiling when Iwaizumi started sputtering. “Wouldn’t that be more believable?” Iwaizumi’s disagreement, naturally, did nothing to stop him from getting roped into Oikawa’s schemes — and ten different voices yelled, “Surprise!” as the dark room was suddenly lit up by various string lights, Oikawa mustered up a convincing gasp and cupped his mouth with both hands.

“Alright,” a low voice drawled to Oikawa’s right. “Who or what gave it away?”

“Kuroo!” Oikawa exclaimed, running over to embrace him. “And Kenma!”

Iwaizumi briefly wondered why Oikawa was excited to see Kenma, and most importantly, why Kenma let him. Had he been in contact with not just Kuroo, but Kenma too, ever since their fateful meeting at the sushi place? How did he get Kenma to warm up to him so quickly? He looked at the three of them acting all buddy-buddy and stifled a growl. Four years of shared suffering really meant nothing to them.

“They actually made up?” came a voice from behind Iwaizumi. Even now, he couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible for astonishment and boredom to coexist in a sentence like that. Before he could ask the man himself, a familiar sounding chuckle cut him off. “Oof, is our relationship in danger?”

Iwaizumi groaned.

Sometime during his and Oikawa’s extended break, Iwaizumi had tried, for the first time ever, to expand his dating pool beyond one Oikawa Tooru. He had regretted not doing it sooner because at least before he would’ve been able to rant about how poorly the dates had gone to the very person who put him in that position in the first place.

Coincidentally, that had happened around the same time Hanamaki and Matsukawa got together. When Iwaizumi video called them to cry his heart out, instead of comforting him, his two worthless friends had a good laugh at his expense.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, annoyed and sad. Truly, the worst combination of emotions.

“Back in high school,” Matsukawa replied, once he settled down, “Takahiro realized that for some inexplicable reason, only one relationship could exist between the four of us.” He saw Iwaizumi open his mouth and waved him off to stop him from speaking. “Like, a _real_ relationship, not whatever you and Oikawa dabbled in through most of high school.”

Iwaizumi tried not to think of what his lips were doing as a pout. “We had a real thing…”

Hanamaki rolled his eyes. “Don’t get defensive, _Iwa-chan_.” Matsukawa snickered, continuing, “Honestly, half the reason I asked him out was to prove his stupid theory wrong. But look where we are now.”

Iwaizumi did a double take at the piece of information Matsukawa just fed him. The wooden poles of his chair dug into his back. “You guys are—” he started, before pivoting, “Wait, so you’re telling me, if you guys broke up, Oikawa and I—”

Matsukawa hung up.

Iwaizumi swallowed, watching with trepidation as Hanamaki’s feed expanded to fill up the rest of his screen. They had stared at each other in silence until Iwaizumi managed a small, “Help me,” and Hanamaki had just sighed. He had an elbow on his desk, chin fitted against the back of his hand.

“What are we going to do with the both of you?” he had said exasperatedly.

Iwaizumi swiveled around to glare at the offending men, both of whom flashed him cheeky grins in sync, as if they had rehearsed this very moment right before walking up to Iwaizumi. His eyes drifted unbidden to where Hanamaki’s arm was draped loosely over Matsukawa’s shoulder — his first mistake. When Hanamaki caught him staring, he slid the arm down to curl it around Matsukawa’s waist, clutching so tightly Iwaizumi could make out the slight dip of Matsukawa's waistline. He looked away as Hanamaki's grin widened — second mistake.

“I still think your hypothesis is stupid,” Iwaizumi said, pointedly fixing his gaze at the group of people crowding around his couch behind them. He suppressed a snort when Hanamaki countered, “Prove me wrong, then.”

“It’s not that easy,” he muttered. Matsukawa stepped forward to get a closer look at Iwaizumi, forcing him to drag his gaze away from the floor and onto the two men before him. Almost distantly, he registered that Hanamaki has grown out his hair, noting that the side swept bangs looked good on him. Not that Iwaizumi would ever share this with the man himself. “Wait, so you didn’t make up?” Matsukawa asked.

Iwaizumi shook his head, feeling a sliver of annoyance when the two of them groaned in unison, even shaking their heads to a shared, silent beat. They really have to stop it with the synchronization act. What were they, boyfriends?

Oikawa bounded over to the three of them just then, throwing his arms around Iwaizumi’s waist as he snuck his chin into the nook of Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Not surprisingly, Iwaizumi felt something close to victory blooming in his chest. He shot Hanamaki a smug look and received a roll of his eyes in response.

“Makki, Mattsun!” Oikawa chirped. “Thanks for coming~”

“I live here and I’m unemployed,” Hanamaki deadpanned.

“I was already in town for the Olympics,” Matsukawa explained. _Yeah, to watch which setter play again?_ Iwaizumi wanted to bite back, only stopping himself because his desire to gang up against Oikawa won out.

“So, don’t flatter yourself by thanking us,” Hanamaki finished with a lilt.

The way Oikawa’s lips were turned downward suggested strong disgust. “You guys were so much easier to deal with when you weren’t dating,” he said, and as much as Iwaizumi had wanted to continue staying on Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s side, he had to agree. “Hate to say it,” Iwaizumi said with a shrug of his shoulder, “but he’s right.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa stared disbelievingly at the other two. “Well, aren’t you lucky you didn’t have to deal with us dating everyday for three years, then?” he retorted icily. Oikawa gasped, scandalized. His mouth hung open as he realized in horror that he didn't know how to respond. He snapped it shut and bumped the back of Iwaizumi’s knee with his own, shooting him a look as if demanding he defend their honor.

“You just said that wasn’t a real relationship!” Iwaizumi sputtered helplessly. “They did?” Oikawa shrieked in his ear, staring at Hanamaki and Matsukawa in shock. Iwaizumi realized halfway through the sentence that it didn’t help his case at all. Still, it was too late for him to stop digging his own grave deeper. “It doesnt count!” he continued. Oikawa whipped his head around to look at Iwaizumi, hands leaving his neck as he took a step back to fully take in his betrayal. “It doesn’t!?”

Iwaizumi reached for Oikawa’s arm and found himself rudely swatted away. “That’s not—“ He pleaded. “Tooru, I didn’t—”

“It was worse,” Matsukawa said. Hanamaki nodded somberly.

Oikawa recoiled, tugging on Iwaizumi's denim jacket. Iwaizumi fell back with Oikawa. “So mean,” Oikawa whined. “And on my birthday too! How could you?” Iwaizumi could hear the fake tears. “Let’s go, Iwa-chan,” his hand slipped easily into Iwaizumi’s pocket as he turned on his heels, stomping away. “There are other people in this party who’d actually be happy to see me.”

As if by some cruel twist of fate, Ushijima materialized in front of them in that instant, blocking Oikawa’s retreat. Behind them, Hanamaki snickered.

“Oikawa, happy—”

Oikawa swung around once more to escape him and Iwaizumi allowed himself to be dragged along. “I’m not drunk enough for this,” he heard Oikawa mutter underneath his breath. And then, louder, “Why did you even invite him to _my_ birthday party?”

Iwaizumi glanced apologetically at a confused Ushijima, hand still hanging in the air, before falling into step next to Oikawa. He cleared his throat, making sure he had Oikawa’s full attention. “When life presents an opportunity to piss you off,” Iwaizumi’s hand mimed a choking motion, “I seize it.”

—

The party dispersed an hour or so before midnight, most of the guests citing work and practice on the way out. Iwaizumi nodded approvingly at Team Japan’s state of sobriety as they left his apartment, relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with a bunch of hungover athletes at work tomorrow, even if he did organize the social. Oikawa didn’t mind, was starting to tire himself, and thought it would be nice to spend the last few moments of his birthday alone with Iwaizumi.

“See you on the court!” Hinata shouted in parting from beyond the doorway. Iwaizumi bit back a warning for him to lower his voice as Oikawa nuzzled in closer to him in the foyer, next to a shoe rack filled to the brim with sneakers in mostly pristine condition, waving goodbye. Beside Hinata, Kageyama was grimacing — an expression Oikawa benevolently translated to a smile in his head. The door swung shut with a strange finality as the last two guests saw themselves out. Iwaizumi was moving away to start cleaning up when he heard laughter bubbling up from Oikawa.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

Oikawa wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eyes, his cheeks flushed a certain pink. He was definitely tipsy, though, by the looks of it, not anywhere near enough to suffer from a hangover the next morning. Iwaizumi approved of this as well. “Did you hear what Tobio-chan told Shouyou, like, two White Claws in?” Oikawa’s voice suddenly took on a lower pitch, “Hinata, you shouldn’t be fraternizing with the enemy.”

When he turned to look at Iwaizumi, Oikawa noted sourly that Iwaizumi’s face was that of judgment. “Did you hear the shit your own drunk ass said?” he accused, crossing his arms against his chest.

Oikawa pouted, unraveling Iwaizumi’s arms to throw himself into an impromptu embrace. “‘M not that drunk,” he mumbled into his neck. A shiver ran down Iwaizumi’s spine, and Oikawa caressed the length of his back soothingly. Then, softly, “Thanks for throwing me a party, Hajime. It’s a pretty decent gift.”

“Decent?” Iwaizumi repeated, an eyebrow raised.

“Well, there’s room for improvement,” Oikawa said coyly, lips tracing the sharp line of Iwaizumi’s jaw. He smiled when he felt muscles twitching underneath his touch. “Something a little spicy to top it off would really seal the deal.”

“Actually,” Iwaizumi said, detaching himself from Oikawa to make his way into the bedroom, steeling himself even when Oikawa let out a little whine. “Gimme one sec.” He heard something that sounded suspiciously like, _It better not be a vanilla ass butt plug, Iwa-chan, no pun intended_ , and rolled his eyes. “Please,” he said, voice petering out as he disappeared past a door frame, “as if you can handle anything more.”

Upon his return, Iwaizumi almost erupted into laughter at the picture Oikawa painted on his couch. From the tint in his cheeks, perhaps an indication of something more than just drunkenness, to the crossing of his legs and the slight up and sideward tilt of his head — he was a striking image of his high school self. Why was Oikawa reverting to a younger version of himself under the influence of alcohol? Was this A Thing? Because Iwaizumi definitely needed to get him drunk more often if it was.

Iwaizumi sighed fondly, plopping down next to him as he dumped a package on Oikawa’s lap.

“What’s this?” Oikawa muttered. He tried going for petulance, but couldn’t keep the curiosity out of his voice entirely and ended up sounding like a three year old who was appeased mid-tantrum by a low effort round of peek-a-boo. Iwaizumi didn’t answer, just waited for Oikawa to peel the tape off carefully.

Oikawa gasped when he finally saw what he was holding. He picked up the bundle of garish green by the corner and watched, mouth agape, as it unfolded into neat patches that waterfalled from his grasp. He jerked up to give it more room to stretch open, barely noticing when the rest of Iwaizumi’s gift tumbled off his thighs.

“My favorite—”

“—stupid alien blanket,” Iwaizumi confirmed.

Oikawa snapped his head to look at him, a thunderous swirl behind his eyes. Iwaizumi offered up a hand, and Oikawa rushed to press the blanket against his chest. “You’re not taking this from me. Not unless you kill me first.”

Iwaizumi snorted at the theatrics. “I literally gave it to you, dumbass.” When that did nothing to deter Oikawa, he pointed at the mess on the floor. “Don’t you want to check out the other stuff?”

That seemed to catch Oikawa’s attention. He narrowed his eyes as he dropped the blanket on top of Iwaizumi, the material denting around his head before he yanked it off and shot Oikawa a glare. Oikawa blew him a raspberry.

He crouched down to inspect the other piece of fabric on the floor. Iwaizumi could pinpoint the exact moment the gears behind Oikawa's eyes clicked into place, enraptured by the way his lips parted ever so slightly in awe. “Iwa-chan…” he said, voice trailing off. He gathered the piece of clothing into his arms. This one was a muted pink, and although there was less of it, that did nothing to stop Oikawa’s heart from swelling double. His gaze alternated between the softness in his hands and Iwaizumi’s warm eyes, as if one would escape him if he wasn’t observing it and he absolutely could not let that happen.

“You wouldn’t shut up about how you wanted your favorite sweater with you in Argentina and you kept forgetting to bring it back with you, so...” was the feeble explanation Iwaizumi gave as he scratched the back of his head. When he noticed the way Oikawa was looking at him, he clenched his hands above his knees and tried not to shrink under the intensity of his stare. “What?” he rasped.

Oikawa shook his head and turned his focus to the last item on the floor: a small, nondescript envelope. There was nothing on it — no stamps, addresses, or seal — that indicated it had ever been mailed. “A card?” he asked, picking it up. Iwaizumi felt his whole world narrowing down to the brown paper marked with traces of recycle in Oikawa’s hands. “S-Something like that.”

Oikawa grinned. “Wow, Iwa-chan, you must’ve said some really nice things if you’re acting like this.” Oikawa flipped the envelope open and pulled out what was, in fact, a card. “Don’t worry, I’ll treasure every word—”

He inhaled sharply when he finally realized what he was holding.

Iwaizumi shifted forward without thinking, as if to get a better look at the expression Oikawa was making. “I found that while digging around.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s a little pretentious to include it, but you would’ve done it without shame if it was the other way around, so I thought, why not?”

When Iwaizumi finally mustered enough courage to look up at Oikawa, his first thought was, _Fuck, he really does look good every which way_ , and then, _Fuck, why does he look like he’s about to cry?_

“Shittykawa," he said. Like clockwork, his brain defaulted to insulting Oikawa in times of uncertainty and helplessness. Iwaizumi reached out to thumb at his eyes, pulling him in so that he could rest his head on Iwaizumi’s lap, face turned graciously away. “Stop.”

“No, you stop,” he cried. “You’re always ruining a perfectly good night with your cheese.” Oikawa grabbed one of Iwaizumi’s hands from where it was resting by his side and laid it on his head. Without further prompting, his hand went to work, running fingers through Oikawa’s hair just the way he liked it. Oikawa’s scoff startled Iwaizumi. He was sure this had been what Oikawa wanted.

“Even after all these years,” Oikawa continued, bitterly, “no one matches up to you.” Iwaizumi felt his heart rate pick up at the words, more intensely than during any of his workouts. Half of him wanted to believe what Oikawa was saying. The other, protective half tried to convince himself it was just the alcohol speaking. Oikawa has always been an over-the-top, emotional drunk. “But you’re so far away.”

Fuck, what did it matter if Oikawa meant it? _Iwaizumi_ meant it.

There were a million things he wanted to say; a million ways he could reason with Oikawa. But only one felt right in the moment. "Tooru,” he said, trying to maintain his composure. "I'm here now." Oikawa broke free of Iwaizumi’s hold and pushed himself up, hooking his legs over Iwaizumi to straddle him. There were two warm hands cupping his face, and Oikawa, snot and tears, moved in to kiss him. Because he wanted to, or because he was trying to hide the tremble of his lower lip, Iwaizumi wasn’t sure.

“Meet me a tenth of the way,” he finished weakly, as Oikawa pulled away. “Please?”

That night, Oikawa kissed him again, and again, and again. Iwaizumi was sure Oikawa hasn’t ever kissed him as much before. It felt desperate, like each swipe of his tongue was meant to stretch a second into two. As if he could keep them here if he kept crashing his teeth against Iwaizumi’s: the both of them dangling forever on the edge of a precipice.

It wasn’t until they were both tucked into Iwaizumi’s bed with the lights off that Iwaizumi realized, dread seeping into his bones, that they had already tipped over. And Oikawa never did say anything back that night.

—

_My dumbass, Tooru,_

_Just so we’re clear, I’m only writing this because you threatened me with you-know-what. Frankly, it's a new low, even for you._

_Obviously, I’ve never written anything like this. The internet says you’re supposed to include things you like about your crush and somehow try to win them over by recognizing their best qualities. See, that’s a problem because I don’t know if you have any good qualities? You’re obnoxious, competitive, nasty, and all you think about is volleyball. Sometimes I’m not even sure if you’ll still like me if I stopped playing volleyball. Like, what the fuck is up with that?_

_I thought of ending the letter there but I already know you’re going to ask me to rewrite it if I did. It’s not my fault you can’t handle the truth, but I’m the one who has to put up with your damn whining, so for my sake, I’m going to list out your few somewhat redeemable qualities to shut you up. Don’t let it get to your head, Trashkawa._

_You’re a damn good setter. You’re kinda cute, even if how insufferable you are tends to cancel that out. Also, you’re nice when you try to be, which is never. And, my favorite, I know I can always count on you._

_Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I like you, Shittykawa. Will you go out with me? Don’t answer because I already know you will. Dumbass._

_Hajime_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik oikawa is an ugly crier but you're telling me iwa doesn't objectively agree while subjectively disagreeing? also, next chapter is gonna be angst chapter sooo get hyped for that ( •̀ᄇ• ́)ﻭ✧


	4. August 1, 2021

The tiny dive bar was a sea of rowdy red, most of them metaphorically drunk off a victory from their first Olympics game, and about to be very literally drunk courtesy of one Miya Atsumu and Bokuto Koutarou. Hinata of infinite energy and excitement was bouncing on his heels next to where the other two were parked by the bar — Atsumu rattling off everyone’s favorite drinks in a show of impressive, albeit useless, memory and Bokuto providing moral support paired with the occasional hooting. 

“A piña colada for me, an Asahi for Ushiwaka and Hyakuzawa, an IPA for Tobio-kun and Aran-kun, a vodka Red Bull for Omi-Omi, a mojito for ya,” he turned to look at Bokuto, who whooped, “and the sweetest cocktail ya got for this one,” Hinata preened, “second sweetest for Hoshiumi, a Moscow mule for Komori, a bloody mary for Yaku, a martini for Kuroo and last but not least, a Manhattan for Iwaizumi.” He smiled smugly, feeling self-satisfied even as Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow from where he was huddled up in a circle consisting of Ushijima, Kuroo and Yaku. “Don’t go too crazy, now,” Iwaizumi warned. 

Bokuto threw both arms out. “Crazy!” he repeated. Hinata was about to mimic the motion when he caught sight of Kageyama towering over him, glaring at him in his usual mixture of fond irritation, and everything else was forgotten. Atsumu sighed contentedly, in such a forgiving mood that none of his teammates’ stupid antics could get to him. 

Speaking of — he flicked his gaze over to Sakusa, who was hanging out with Komori at the other end of the bar. Their eyes met as Sakusa’s swept across the room to check on the bartender, wondering if his drink was ready, and Atsumu took the opportunity to swivel around, leaning as casually as possible against the wooden table on his forearm, one leg crossed in front of the other, and flashed him what he considered a winning smile. With a roll of Sakusa's eyes, Atsumu felt like he had something else worth celebrating tonight.

The heavy, black door across the room cracked open just then and judging by the way Iwaizumi was eagerly pushing past him to greet the newcomer, Atsumu had a pretty good guess of who could be waiting on the other side. His suspicions were confirmed when brown cow licks popped into view and, beside him, Kageyama emitted a low growl. 

Atsumu didn’t hesitate to catcall after Iwaizumi, laughing when the other man flipped him off. “ _You_ feel free to go crazy, Iwaizumi!” 

—

“Took you long enough,” Iwaizumi grumbled, words lacking any bite, as he led Oikawa back to the table with a hand around his wrist. The setter was dressed casually in an navy t-shirt and black jeans, having long since switched out of his jersey. Still fucking hot, Iwaizumi thought, peering behind his shoulder to stare openly. 

Oikawa, who looked like he'd already been drinking, giggled. “It’s not easy trying to sneak away when you’re as popular as I am,” he explained, wiggling his hand out of Iwaizumi’s grip to interlace their fingers together. He waved at Kuroo, who was smirking welcomingly at him, and noted amusedly as he took his seat across from Ushijima that even he looked pleased to see Oikawa. He settled into the stiff chair with a smile toying on his lips, not even caring that the bar was dinky and probably didn’t serve the expensive, frivolous cocktails he liked so much. Post-game kickbacks were the best.

“Congrats on the win,” Kuroo said easily, raising his drink in a toast. “Thanks,” Oikawa replied, stealing Iwaizumi’s without so much as a look to check if he minded, and clinked their glasses together. “You guys, too.” His tilted his head back to take a sip of the drink, instantly regretting his decision when the bitterness hit. “Ew, Iwa-chan, your taste seriously gets worse every year,” he accused, face scrunched up as he glared at the offending glass in hand.

Iwaizumi chuckled. “Clearly,” he said, tipping his head knowingly at Oikawa. 

Honestly, he wouldn’t have minded the jab, was feeling beyond benevolent tonight, but Ushijima’s lips just had to twitch and, what the hell, how dare he laugh at something _his_ Iwa-chan said? “No,” Oikawa said, slamming Iwaizumi’s glass down on the table, snatching his hand away when some of the liquid sloshed onto it. “You can’t just— no. Laughing at his sense of humor is off-limits.” He wagged a finger at Ushijima and Iwaizumi with his alcohol-stained hand.

Ushijima came graciously to Iwaizumi’s rescue before he could even think up a suitable retort. “Oikawa,” he started, frowning, “that is slightly unreasonable, even for a possessive boyfriend.” Oikawa choked on air. “We are, after all, on the same team. It would be hard not to appreciate Iwaizumi's jokes given how funny he is.” 

“Holy shit,” he heard Iwaizumi mutter next to him. On his other side, Kuroo and Yaku were doubling over in laughter. “You think he’s funny?” Oikawa cried incredulously, ducking away when Kuroo’s hand almost knocked against the side of his face. “Pause,” Kuroo said, gasping for air. “ _That’s_ the part you had an issue with?” 

“He knows the rest of it is true,” Iwaizumi said, shooting Oikawa a cheeky smile. 

Oikawa arched his eyebrows. _If Iwa-chan wants to play this game…_ “Well,” he leaned so close to Iwaizumi he was practically breathing on his face, “I've never liked sharing.” Iwaizumi swallowed. To share required prior ownership. Oikawa’s long fingers found Iwaizumi’s knee, trailing up where his skin was exposed past the hem of his shorts. His eyelashes fluttered against cheeks dusted pink with intoxication, obvious even in the near darkness of the room. “Do you have a problem with that, Iwaizumi?”

Kuroo slapped his arm and told them to get a room. 

—

Oikawa caught Hinata while Iwaizumi was off proving his manhood at one arm wrestling competition or another. It was barely past midnight but the energy that had pervaded the room earlier was dwindling noticeably. Even though tomorrow was a recovery day, years of morning practice, on top of the game they played earlier, had rendered most of them incapable of staying up too late.

“Shouyou,” Oikawa called out, right as Hinata stumbled out of the bathroom. Oikawa has mostly sobered up by now, suspended in that uncomfortable point where the traces of alcohol left in his system caused more physical discomfort than pleasure. Something about the impending headache and his quickening heart rate acted as a trigger for unwanted thoughts to come spilling forth — the very ones he had been trying to suppress since he last met with Iwaizumi on his birthday. “Got a minute?”

They had been conveniently swamped with work and practice for the past week, and though they have continued texting and even managed to sneak in a stolen moment here and there — quickies over break, quiet dinners in Iwaizumi’s apartment — they never really had enough time or energy to address what he had left unsaid. 

Hinata grinned as he approached Oikawa, seemingly unfazed by the severity of his tone and the way Oikawa’s brows had creased into a frown. “Sure!” he exclaimed. Oikawa had a split second to wonder enviously if it was at all possible for anything to upset him. 

“Outside?” Oikawa asked, cocking his head at the door. “Outside!” Hinata agreed, tufts bobbing along. 

The warm summer breeze hit Oikawa like a sharp wake-up call to the reality of his situation. He tried not to grimace as shoved his hands into the pocket of his jeans, not knowing how to steer the conversation now that he had Hinata’s attention. He opened his mouth and promptly closed it again, shying a little under strangely inquisitive ember eyes. 

Hinata plopped down on the sidewalk, glancing at Oikawa as if willing him to follow suit. Oikawa sat next to him, drawing his knees closer to his chest as he wrapped both arms around himself in a protective hug. Oikawa’s elbow bumped against the side of Hinata's knee as they splayed out so he could loosely clasp both hands together in the newly created space.

Oikawa turned to meet Hinata’s gaze with some difficulty. In every other aspect of his life, he was a fight kind of guy. Sure, he might falter, but he would always end up facing whatever obstacle was in his way head on. But the moment his feelings were concerned, every cell in his body screamed flight. “Back in Brazil,” he started, slowly. Hinata waited patiently as Oikawa grappled to find the right words. “Does he know?” 

“Kageyama?” Hinata asked, taking Oikawa’s silence as confirmation. “Yeah. ‘Course,” he responded breezily. “You told Iwaizumi-san too.” 

Oikawa, who had been worried that this would also be a thorny subject for Hinata, was surprised to hear that his tone was light. He swallowed to fight the tightness of his throat. “And when you leave for Brazil again, what happens then?”

Hinata blinked owlishly at him. “Are you asking if we should—”

Oikawa scowled, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes. “Obviously not,” he cried. 

“Oh!” Hinata exclaimed. “Oh? Oh! Wait, I think I get it! Is this about Iwaizumi-san?”

“There you go you little, good-for-nothing, volleyball freak,” he muttered, releasing his hands to pinch the bridge of his nose as if that would dull the throbbing in his head.

Hinata gasped, finally connecting the dots. “Is this why Iwaizumi-san’s been all _bweh_ lately?”

“When I watch you play, I think, wow, Shrimpy’s all grown up now.” He generously employed the nickname with the slightest hint of affection. “But then I talk to you and, poof,” Oikawa’s fingers, curled in on each other, exploded, “the magic disappears.” Hinata only grinned in response, and Oikawa allowed the comfortable silence between them to marinate for a little longer. “Did Iwa-chan tell you anything?” he asked eventually, not because he thought Iwaizumi would go around telling everyone about them; just that Oikawa wouldn’t have blamed him if he needed someone to talk to and spending so much time everyday with the same people was bound to forge some deep friendships. 

Oikawa would know.

“Nah,” Hinata said, waving a hand dismissively in Oikawa’s direction. “Iwaizumi-san’s a very private person.” Oikawa sighed, because of course. He knew that. “But if he told anyone,” Hinata continued, seemingly oblivious to the way Oikawa perked up beside him, “it would be Ushijima-senpai!” Oikawa visibly cringed as Hinata cupped his chin, deep in thought. “Yeah, I think Iwaizumi-san probably gets along the best with Ushijima-senpai.”

Well, that was, quite possibly, the one thing Oikawa never wanted to hear. He wished fervently that there was someone on Team Japan he could talk to, _anyone_ , who wasn’t a complete weirdo. _That Ojiro seems like a sensible guy_ , he thought hysterically. _Or maybe one of the liberos_? 

_But_ , a voice reasoned at the back of his mind, _wouldn’t the hallmark of a sensible player be to stay in their own lanes and not dabble in things like the love life of their athletic trainer?_

“That’s disgusting,” was the best Oikawa could come up with. “Don’t say that to my face ever again. Also, answer my question.” 

Hinata squinted, as if trying to recall the question. “What’s gonna happen when we’re playing for different countries?” Oikawa gave him a curt nod. “Hmm,” his eyes narrow impossibly smaller, “well, we’ll get to play each other less, I guess, but when we do the stakes will be higher!” He gestured grandly with his arms. “Isn’t that exciting?” 

Oikawa definitely understood Hinata’s appeal. Just not in this moment. “Will you break up with him?” he asked, enunciating each word slowly to be as explicit as possible. 

“What? No!” Hinata exclaimed. “We won’t be, y’know, _exclusive._ ” Oikawa felt his jaw tick at the way Hinata had said that: _exclusive_ , charged with meaning; _exclusive_ , like the key to a secret buried deep within the both of them. “But we’ll still _be_.” He shrugged. “What’s the point in breaking up?”

“It sucks not being with him for most of the year. Sucks even more when it goes on for years,” Oikawa supplied, trying not to sound too petulant.

“So?” Hinata looked quizzically at Oikawa. “It’s not like you’ll be dating anyone else anyway.” 

Oikawa groaned. He wasn’t wrong. “But don’t you ever catch yourself thinking, ‘How long until we can act like a normal couple?’ or 'How long until we _can_ be exclusive?' And then you start to think, ‘What if there was someone else?’”

Hinata’s eyes pinned him in place. “We’re _not_ a normal couple, Oikawa-san. We’re a volleyball power couple,” he declared with a clench of his fist, as if he had just scored a service ace. Hinata had said it like a joke, but Oikawa wondered if that was really all there was to it. “Volleyball is Kageyama. Kageyama is volleyball. I want them, together.” He reached out with his hands, grasping. “Brazil is for volleyball, but I wouldn’t give Kageyama up for that.” He smiled with the same intensity he gave off on the court.

“Brazil is giving him up,” Oikawa argued, not understanding. Irvine was giving him up. Japan was giving him up.

Hinata shook his head. “There's a life after pro-volleyball,” he said, and Oikawa might have to rethink his entire existence if he was getting _this_ lecture from Hinata Shouyou, of all people. “That belongs to Kageyama.”

As if he had summoned the man with a mere utterance, there was suddenly a hand on Hinata’s shoulder. “Dumbass,” came Kageyama’s default angry voice. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

Hinata whipped around. “Why? Did you miss me?”

Kageyama positively scowled, but Hinata was so well-versed in Kageyama by now that he knew scowl number four, type three was simply displeasure born out of embarrassment. One of his favorites, actually. 

Hinata grinned, tilting his head to look up at him. “Are we leaving?” 

Scowl number one, type two. Concern. “You’ll get sick if you stay out any later,” he threatened.

“That goes for you too, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said from behind Kageyama, newly exiting the bar. 

Both Hinata and Oikawa stood up — Hinata hopping over to link his arm around Kageyama’s while Oikawa busied himself with brushing the back of his pants. “Thanks,” Oikawa called out after Hinata. If his voice was quieter than usual, it certainly wasn’t because he had any trouble expressing gratitude for advice given to him by someone who was supposed to be his junior.

“Anytime, Oikawa-san!” he said, walking away with a wave.

Iwaizumi walked over to Oikawa, holding out an arm when they were standing side by side. “What’s this?” Oikawa asked, eyebrows raised suspiciously. 

“Wouldn’t want you to feel left out now, would I?” Iwaizumi said, a straightforward smile slipping onto his face. Oikawa wanted to kiss him stupid. Or maybe eat him up. He should look up how to do both at the same time. "I'll also have you know that this arm," he gave it a few self-satisfied pats, "is tonight's reigning champion. It's the best there is in a five hundred meter radius."

“What an honor,” Oikawa muttered, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep his own lips from quirking up even as he accepted his prize.

“Sure is," Iwaizumi said with a chuckle. Then, "What did you want with him?” Iwaizumi asked as Oikawa turned on his heels, navigating the both of them back to the Olympic Village where they would likely proceed to crash in his hotel room. Oikawa wasn’t sure if he was imagining the edge in his voice. _You told Iwaizumi-san too…_

“Answers,” he said, not knowing how else to respond without starting something he wasn’t ready to follow through right now. 

“To?” 

“Life?” 

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, and Oikawa tightened his grip around his arm. Maybe he wasn’t ready to give him volleyball. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t give him anything at all. He licked his lips. “Hajime,” he started, “I know you’re waiting on me. I’m not avoiding you— well, maybe a little.” The small chuckle that left his lips rang empty. He shifted his gaze slightly and found Iwaizumi’s trained on him. “I just need some time, what with,” he gestured at his surroundings, “volleyball, the Olympics and whatnot.” 

“Volleyball,” Iwaizumi echoed. “Right.” 

Oikawa winced. They were twenty-four again and for the first time since he had left him for Argentina, Iwaizumi had tears in his eyes, face twisted into something he barely recognized. Oikawa's hands were shaking where they hung uselessly by his sides. He tried digging his nails into the face of his palm to feel something, but even that was denied to him by way of the meticulous trimming that has long been part of his daily routine. For volleyball.

They were cursed, Oikawa thought. They had to be.

“C’mon, Iwa-chan,” he said, playing it down. “Just ‘til the closing ceremony. That’s not a big ask.” A practiced wink, a tongue sticking out; the both of them equipped with the knowledge that Iwaizumi saw through everything. 

Iwaizumi sighed. He shook Oikawa off his arm, Oikawa’s eyes widening before his hand came back to wrap around Oikawa’s own, vice-like. “Another thing I have hundreds of hours on.” Oikawa shot him a questioning look. “Waiting around for your dumb ass.” 

—

“Dude," Kuroo said, eyeing him skeptically. "You look even worse than Oikawa.”

Iwaizumi scowled. There it was again: the friendship that shouldn’t be, rubbed in his face. Kuroo seemed to sense that he had to appease Iwaizumi somehow and held up both hands as he stepped aside to allow Iwaizumi entrance into his apartment. “To think you’d be upset that your friends got along with your boyfriend.”

“Not,” Iwaizumi said pointedly, glaring at Kuroo over his shoulder as he toed off his shoes, “my boyfriend.” 

“ _That’s_ the real problem, isn’t it?” Kuroo’s trademark smirk was back. He couldn’t keep it off his dumb face if he tried. “And this time, I get to hear his side of the story too.” The smirk widened into a grin as Iwaizumi scrunched up his nose in distaste. Were his eyes seriously sparkling right now? “What a spicy time to be alive.” 

Iwaizumi stalked over to the dining table, taking his place across where Kuroo normally sat. “Feed me,” he said instead of an actual response. 

Kenma rose from the couch, hidden until then. “How does curry sound?” he asked, walking past where Iwaizumi was seated, and Iwaizumi had no choice but to stand up and make his way into the kitchen with him even if he just sat down. It would be a different story if Kuroo was offering, but somehow it just didn’t feel right to have Kenma serve him food. Or anything, really.

“How’s everything with you?” Iwaizumi asked, leaning most of his bodyweight against the kitchen counter, arms crossed lightly on the surface. 

Kenma shot him a loaded look. “That’s my question, Iwaizumi.” His voice was small as usual, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable. 

The fluorescent lighting reflected garishly onto fake granite countertops, Iwaizumi noted, frowning. Kuroo should’ve outgrew his college apartment — Iwaizumi personally never liked it — but, he had reasoned, there was no point upgrading when he spent most of his time at Kenma’s anyway. Iwaizumi couldn’t argue with that, even though this apartment was where they usually ended up hanging out by virtue of being in the heart of the city.

All that was to say he didn’t want to answer Kenma’s question. 

“Bleh,” he managed. Hinata must be rubbing off on him. 

“You do look pretty _bleh_ ,” Kuroo said, suddenly by the doorway, his towering figure blocking out most of it. Iwaizumi turned to acknowledge the source of his voice and narrowed his eyes when he realized they were flanking him, a strategic move designed to trap him so he would be forced to pour out all his woes and entertain them in the process of doing so. “Just tell me what happened already.”

Iwaizumi growled. “I know, for a fact, that Oikawa’s already told the both of you what happened.”

“Aww, come on, man. Let's hear your point of view. You matter too!” Kuroo pleaded.

His point of view? When he really thought about it, what did it mean to meet him a tenth of the way? He knew what _he_ meant, obviously, but it was such a vague platitude that Oikawa could’ve interpreted it differently. Iwaizumi pursed his lips.

“I think I asked him out again and he kind of, basically, said no? We’ve gone through some version of this pretty much every time we’ve seen each other in the past few weeks.” He flipped around so he had his back to the counter instead, interlacing his fingers together, elbows pressed close to his side. “Am I stupid?” 

“No,” Kuroo answered slowly, before clarifying, “not for asking him out. Clearly, the guy likes you back.” Iwaizumi grabbed the plate of fluffy rice and delicious looking curry Kenma was handing him and muttered a quick thanks. He had to kick Kuroo's foot in warning before he was allowed passage. “But maybe a little for doing the same thing each time and hoping for a different outcome?”

A flash of anger sparked through Iwaizumi. “If he’s expecting some grand gesture—”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, cutting him off. “I mean, I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt since it's Oikawa we're talking about. But more than that, why did you break up in the first place?” Iwaizumi thought of Argentina, of volleyball, of the carnal dissatisfaction in Oikawa’s eyes, insatiable. “Have you fixed all that enough that getting back together would be different?”

Iwaizumi placed his curry away from him so he had could plant his head on the table. He groaned into the wood, drowning out the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as Kuroo and Kenma settled in around him. 

“Look, man, you’ve been pining for this man your whole life.” Chopsticks clacking against each other. Soft blowing to displace heat. Iwaizumi turned, resting a cheek on the table. “Kenma and I,” Kuroo gestured at the man beside him, “and all your friends, I’m sure, have had the pleasure of listening to this pining for the last seven years. What could be so bad that you can’t just, like, do it?” Iwaizumi could feel Kuroo pointing his chopsticks at him, as if _he_ was the difficult one. “Just get over it and start dating the guy for real.”

“Yep, lemme just throw my whole life away and chase him down to Argentina.” Iwaizumi’s cheekbone shifted uncomfortably against the hard surface with every word, but as of right now, this was preferable to having to look at his friends.

Kuroo frowned. “Why would you need to do that?” 

Now, Iwaizumi was frowning too. “Well, he’s made it clear that he’s not returning.”

“I meant the part about throwing your life away.”

“Oh.” His frown deepened. Iwaizumi thought this should be even more obvious. “Let’s see.” Iwaizumi raised a hand, extending a finger with each item he listed. “I grew up here. All my friends and family are here. My job, and career, could be international but are here right now. Is that enough reason?” Then, he repeated firmly what he had told Oikawa the night by the lake. “Japan is home.”

When there was no response, Iwaizumi wedged a hand underneath his chin to peer up at the man across the table. Kuroo had a strange, perplexed look on his face. He glanced at Kenma, who sighed like he should've seen this coming.

“So, you think you belong here because you were born here,” Kenma summarized. “What’s wrong with Argentina?”

“It’s just not the same.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know how Oikawa did it. Does it.” A memory from his first visit surfaced to the top of his mind: Oikawa struggling with a new language after coming home from a day of exhausting drills and practice matches. Iwaizumi grimaced. “The culture, language, people — I don’t understand any of it.” 

Kuroo scoffed. “Iwaizumi,” he said, as if in disbelief. “Yeah, okay, but what’s the one thing you understand the most? More than anything else?” 

Iwaizumi frowned, squinting at him as if he couldn't tell if Kuroo was joking. Only when he confirmed the lack of a smirk on Kuroo's face did he consider the question seriously. Recently, probably sports science. Before college, probably volleyball. He didn't think he could remember a time in his life without the sport.

Going by sheer number of years alone, that would mean volleyball won out. "Volleyball," he answered.

Kuroo blinked. Kenma blinked. Iwaizumi looked at Kenma, then back at Kuroo. Though the both of them seemed to be openly questioning his intelligence, Kuroo at least looked open to the possibility of redemption for Iwaizumi. 

"What?" he asked indignantly, straightening back up. He took a swig from the cup of water they had generously placed by his food. 

Kenma pushed the plate of stranded curry over to Iwaizumi. "Eat your food before it gets cold," he instructed.

He had sounded so disappointed that Iwaizumi couldn't help but replay the conversation on his way back home. When he started thinking, _really_ thinking about the question Kuroo had posed, entertaining the idea that maybe there was something he understood more than volleyball, he found himself latching onto seemingly trivial memories from the past few weeks. 

He thought of Hinata explaining Kageyama's eighteen different scowls, even though all of them had looked the same to him. "No!" Hinata had exclaimed when Sakusa, in a rare display of engagement with the rest of the team, had pointed out as much. Hinata zoomed in on a picture on his phone. "See, here, his left eyebrow looks like a float serve. And this one," he made a pinching motion on his screen before swiping right and zooming in again, "this one's a jump serve." Iwaizumi was the only one who had laughed because even though it didn't make sense to him on Kageyama, he understood where Hinata was coming from, having a certain idiot in his life whose spectrum of facial expressions he had pinned down just as well. 

He thought of a green blanket, a pink sweater, a letter. The reaction they had evoked; that he had predicted. 

He thought of the playlist they had listened to on the train ride. "Oh my gooodddd!" The man beside him had wheezed. "Do you remember Makki's video—" and Iwaizumi had said yes. "This was playing on our first date! Aw, Iwa-chan, you're such a softie." Yes. "That time we danced in your room!" Yes. "First," a smirk and the playful arch of an eyebrow, "time." Yes, yes, yes.

He thought of milk bread in the dark; a decadent chirashi bowl that would've been perfect if not for the shrimp. Not for him — he hated fatty tuna and seared anything, of which half the meal had been — for the man he had wanted to treat. 

He thought of careless words outside a nondescript sushi place, the sun uncomfortably hot.

Iwaizumi halted abruptly, almost tripping over air. Suddenly, it all seemed so simple: the strings untangled, the pieces in place. He felt weirdly lucid, every muscle in his body crying out in a way that didn't feel like lactic acid. His blood was fire and he was literally going to die at the tender age of twenty-seven because he was on fire. Because of fucking Oikawa. Always, because of fucking Oikawa. 

He licked his lips.

“What do I do with this?” he asked no one in particular.

Then, he called Kuroo and asked him.

—

Having just finished their last game in the preliminaries and securing a spot in the quarterfinals, Iwaizumi found himself weaseling his way into packed benches along with most of Team Japan. They ended up scattered across multiple rows since they couldn’t find one with enough open seats to fit all of them, not counting the ones at the very back of the room, from which there was hardly any point in sitting around to watch the game. 

Argentina was up against France, and going by historical data, Argentina, _Oikawa_ , should have a good chance of winning and making it out of this stage as well. He glanced over at the three men seated next to him as Oikawa conducted his pre-serve ritual, their eyes trained on the setter, studying his every move.

Without looking — of course Iwaizumi still looked, but that was besides the point — he knew what Oikawa was doing: ten fingers on the ball, five on its head and five below, sending it into a comfortable spin on the face of his palm before both hands came down to halt its orbit. Then the whole thing again, just to be sure. 

He flung the ball high up in the air, head tilted upward so he never lost track of it: his North Star. His knees bent deeper before springing forward, taking flight in two grand leaps. Oikawa’s body was a perfect arch, spine curved like a bow stretched taut, and when the ball fell back into his waiting hand, he welcomed it. 

It slammed down like a straight shot against glossy hardwood, rebounding out of the playing field on the other side of the net. An arrow, released. 

Iwaizumi caught the moment at the peak of his jump when Oikawa’s face twisted into something feral. His right hand, dangling off his knee, tingled with the echo of a spike. Patterned leather seemed to graze his callouses, formed and reformed since he stopped playing volleyball and settled for the gym.

Something like eighty percent of humanity found a form of nature to be the most beautiful sight in the world. This was made obvious to him back when he was still trying to resolve the happenings in his chest at watching his best friend soar, and a perfunctory search for "most beautiful sights in the world" had returned pictures upon pictures of oceans, mountains and trees in bloom. He had wondered if he was the only one who felt that a perfect jump serve by an almost perfect man held cultural importance, and glancing at the images on his laptop back then, a scowl on his face, it had certainly seemed like it. 

When he tried “most beautiful things in life” next, he recalled seeing someone list “the feeling of being in love.” That was close, he had thought, but even that was intrapersonal, a reflection of yourself more so than the person of affection. Then, _Close_? he remembered thinking. _Close to what_? He could still feel the frigid air of his sharp inhale. Just like that, with the force of sixteen years going on seventeen crashing into him, he had understood.

Oikawa set a toss so close to the net, for a moment it looked like he was going to spike it over himself. Watching him play today was unlike watching him play in their high school gym; the distance between them a chasm separating those who took on the world from those who were mere onlookers. But they were alike in the feelings Oikawa inspired.

An Olympics match totaled five sets at most. Within three, maybe four, Oikawa's win would mark the end of the game. A lifetime, spanning decades, was an intimidating promise in comparison. 

Yet, Iwaizumi had already fulfilled two of those — three, in a few more years. He was starting to come to terms with the fact that, at this rate, a lifetime didn’t seem so unrealistic. If he spent another two decades, and another two after that, _wanting_ , well, that might just be acceptable to him. If that was to be his life, he would want dutifully. Beautifully. 

Oikawa scored with an unexpected dump, and the crowd went wild.

—

They ran into each other by the lockers later, Iwaizumi having forgotten his keys in his rush to watch Argentina play. He was standing respectfully by the entrance, waiting for the room to empty out, when Oikawa swept out of the doorway in all his post-game glory. 

“Iwa-chan,” he said, voice full of surprise. Iwaizumi caught sight of the jangle of silver looped around his fingers. The alien charm, hanging next to a miniature godzilla, was unmistakable. Iwaizumi extended a hand and watched passively as Oikawa returned his keys. “I was just gonna send you a text,” he explained. 

Iwaizumi nodded. “Right. Thanks.” 

Maybe if Oikawa wasn’t high off endorphins, he would’ve stopped to question Iwaizumi’s tone. Instead, he flashed him a grin. “Did you watch me play?” he asked. Not the match. Not the team. _Him_. 

“Of course,” Iwaizumi responded, voice cracking at the end of the sentence. He cleared his throat. 

There was a glint in Oikawa’s eyes, raw and dangerous. Licking his lips, he said, “That was a good match.” His gaze went out of focus, and Iwaizumi wasn’t sure who he was talking to. “I played well today, didn’t I?” 

“You always do,” he heard himself say. 

A reserved smile replaced his grin, sweet for a split second. He looked like he was about to say something when one of his teammates interrupted him with what sounded like a question in a language foreign to Iwaizumi, who had grasped only Oikawa's name. _Tooru_ , in a manner so careless, was sacrilegious. Oikawa responded in kind, mouth warped around sounds Iwaizumi hadn’t known before today but already hated, then turned back to face him. “Come to the party?”

“Not today. Late team meeting since the schedule’s so tight,” he said. His chest squeezed. Wanting, again.

Oikawa pouted, though his tone was teasing. “Look who’s the workaholic now.”

Iwaizumi moved to smack his arm, but Oikawa evaded his attack easily and walked away, laughter echoing down the hall, ringing in Iwaizumi’s ears. "See you later, Iwa-chan~"

Iwaizumi stepped into the locker room and slammed the door shut, his back sliding against the smoothness of coated wood as he sank down, burying his face in knees drawn up close to his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to settle the raging thoughts in his mind, helpless to their charge as they spun out of control. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! 
> 
> a couple things today:
> 
>   * you may or may not have noticed that i reworked chapter 1. it's mostly the same plot/dialogue-wise, just fleshed it out a bit more since it felt super bony upon rereading. just an fyi in case you went back and were like?? wait is it just me or does this look really different? 
>   * it physically pained me to write the last parts and then i had to hurt again while editing lmao. can we get some Fs in the chat 
>   * may i introduce my baby twitter account [@hoesomelf](https://twitter.com/hoesomelf), where i uwu over these 2 idiots and, more recently, (grits through teeth) sakusa and atsumu? come say hello and owo with me 
> 

> 
> thank you for sticking around! i hope you're enjoying this lil thing so far 🖤 and if not maybe the rough, pent-up emotions, [redacted for spoilers] sex next week will change your mind what? who said that?


	5. August 3, 2021

Iwaizumi wasn’t even ashamed to admit that when the last point had been scored and most of Team Japan had looked like they were ready to cry or punch someone, namely themselves, his attention had been held captive by the setter across the net. Oikawa — always, but especially in victory — was radiant. 

Iwaizumi watched as he shook Ushijima’s hand underneath the net, endorsement-worthy smile stretched across his face, and tried to ignore the conflicted pang in his chest. He knew how much this win would’ve meant to so many on the team, himself included, but he also knew how much it meant to Oikawa. Maybe he had wanted it more than the rest of them combined. 

Their eyes met for the briefest second as Oikawa turned to join the rest of his team and Iwaizumi saw that primitive unknown flash across his countenance once more, as if he was still the ruler of an imaginary court. Iwaizumi was hardly surprised when moments later, his phone vibrated with a message.

 **crappykawa** ** _1:58PM 8/3/2021_ ** **_  
_** shower

All the sadness and frustration in the world couldn’t have stopped him from answering Oikawa's summon. He made sure to pad enough time between when when everyone had left and when he made his move to prevent certain unwanted scenarios. One could never be too cautious to begin with, and if Iwaizumi hadn’t misinterpreted Oikawa’s text, no amount of caution would be enough. 

“Iwa-chan,” came the syrupy voice he had been expecting. Oikawa was leaning against a tiny strip of wall separating two stalls, devastatingly and handsomely invincible, and Iwaizumi was Ariadne, delivered to the Underworld in death. “How rude of you to keep me waiting,” he said, grin nearly splitting his face in half. 

And for all his eloquence, it was a, “Fuck you, Oikawa,” that Iwaizumi snapped, cutting the distance between them in the span of an utterance. He tilted his head upward to look Oikawa in the eye, ignoring the way he leered down at him, reminding Iwaizumi of his superior physique. Their mouths were so close that the slightest movement would join their lips, but neither of them took that first step, choosing instead to taunt the other into submission. “I hate your guts,” Iwaizumi hissed. 

Oikawa’s exhale was controlled, breath warm against Iwaizumi’s lips. “Oh, Iwa-chan,” he muttered sweetly. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.” 

Iwaizumi jerked as if to make a move, pulling away at the last possible moment as the tip of his nose brushed lightly against Oikawa’s. His parted lips curled into a cocksure thing when Oikawa leaned forward to chase after him, baited into claiming his kiss. He caught himself partway but it was too late. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Iwaizumi.

When Oikawa took a step toward him, Iwaizumi matched it with a step in reverse, still holding his gaze. Oikawa clicked his tongue, irritation written clearly on his face. Iwaizumi reached over to nudge one of the stalls open and nodded in its direction. 

The humidity in the room did not alleviate Oikawa's smothering scrutiny, but Iwaizumi refused to succumb. Not for this, not now, not when they had already lost the game and Oikawa was acting like a righteous dick. 

They were at a standstill for the longest five seconds of his life when Oikawa, with a slight grimace, blinked and broke eye contact. He whipped around to walk past the door that was so graciously held open for him, slapping the hand away out of pettiness as he stepped inside. He hadn’t attacked with enough strength to actually dislodge Iwaizumi’s arm, so he was surprised when Iwaizumi removed it to catch his rogue hand mid-air. 

“What,” Iwaizumi drawled, the predatory lilt causing Oikawa to freeze, “did you think I was just gonna let you take me like some spoil of war?” Oikawa bit his bottom lip, thankful he had his back to Iwaizumi. He heard Iwaizumi shuffling in behind him, followed by the hitching of a latch and the unmistakable unbuckling of a belt. The fingers around his wrist tightened before he saw Iwaizumi’s other hand snaking around him. Oikawa thought he would go for his shorts but Iwaizumi seized Oikawa’s other hand instead, bringing both of them around onto the small of his back.

Iwaizumi caged both of Oikawa’s hands with the broad surface of a palm and two simple words, "Don't move." A thinly veiled warning for what would happen if he did. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa mouthed before he felt leather wrapping around his wrists. He drew in a deep breath in a futile attempt to control his heart rate and the rapidly worsening situation in his pants. “Fuck.”

In the silence of the men’s bathroom, the word rang loud and clear. But that didn’t stop Iwaizumi from asking him to repeat himself, a finger curled into the restrain as he stepped away, forcing Oikawa’s shoulder blades to bunch up ever so slightly under his jersey. “What was that?”

“You,” Oikawa seethed, knowing full well Iwaizumi had heard him the first time. 

Iwaizumi chuckled, suddenly by his ear even as he stretched Oikawa’s arms further back. “Just remember that everything you say will be used against you.” His tongue traced the curve of Oikawa’s earlobe, venturing deeper and deeper with each lick. Oikawa buried half his face in his shoulders, craning his neck awkwardly, desperately trying to muffle the noises that were bubbling up from within him. He should’ve known better than to bother trying, because immediately there was a hand cupping his chin and yanking it away. 

“I wanna hear you,” Iwaizumi said, fingers digging sharply into Oikawa’s face. 

“We’re in—” 

“I said,” there was a hand on Oikawa’s back, pressing lightly, somehow commanding in its gentleness, “I wanna hear you.” Oikawa moaned, flicking his tongue against the delicate webbing between Iwaizumi’s thumb and index finger as he was led forward, all the way until his forehead was against the wall, next to the shower rod. Iwaizumi released his hold on Oikawa’s chin to drag them across his lips, and when Oikawa’s tongue darted out once more, he allowed his fingers to be sucked in. “Don’t forget this was your idea.”

Iwaizumi hooked his free thumb under Oikawa’s waistband and yanked his shorts and trunks down in one go, leaving only his back exposed as the material caught upfront. That worked out perfectly for Iwazumi, who withdrew the fingers now wet from Oikawa’s ministrations to tease at his entrance, shoving his knee between Oikawa’s legs to spread them wider apart. 

Oikawa whimpered, arching his back to tempt Iwaizumi into giving him what he wanted. It was easy to see through what he was doing, but Iwaizumi relented anyway, inserting a finger up to its first knuckle as he pulled down his own pants and started stroking himself.

Oikawa truly was a work of art. Sure, Iwaizumi knew plenty of other athletes who were just as sculpted, but they weren’t his Tooru — the snotty five year old that wouldn’t leave him alone turned into the attractive yet wildly insecure seventeen year old turned into _this_ , likely Olympic medalist who still responded divinely to his touch and gave him the time of day like there wasn't anyone else more deserving, now with a bubble butt to boot, that really made Iwaizumi want to fuck him senseless. 

“Hajime, ah, Hajime,” Oikawa cried as Iwaizumi’s prodding was met with some resistance, saliva not quite slick enough. Not that Oikawa seemed to mind. “Hajime,” he called out again, as if in a daze. “I love y—”

Iwaizumi stilled, eyes widening as his entire world tunneled down to the sound of Oikawa’s voice. “What?” 

“I love how you keep me in line,” Oikawa blurted, not missing a beat. “Love when you take control.” 

Half his brain combusted at Oikawa's obvious stroking of his ego while the other half told him to get a grip and demand Oikawa to back the fuck up. 

“Fuck,” he said instead, ignoring the complicated feelings that were starting to arise in favor of bringing a hand down on Oikawa’s ass, distracting the both of them from what had almost transpired. 

The response was instantaneous. Oikawa yelped, then whipped his head around as much as physically possible to stare at Iwaizumi, features set in horror. “That's— That'll attract—” 

“Don’t worry,” he said, catching Oikawa’s gaze, allowing the mask to drop temporarily. “Everyone’s already left. I made sure of it.” He waited for Oikawa to settle, breathing out a quiet sound, before snickering. “You’d like it if they heard you though, wouldn’t you?” He kneaded the firm cheek presented to him and relished in the way Oikawa squeezed around his finger as he curled it into his prostate. Oikawa moaned, the sound dragging on when Iwaizumi slipped a hand into the front of Oikawa’s pants and swiped at the tip of his cock, the wetness he found confirming the truth of his statement. 

He hummed, mildly surprised in spite of everything. “Does the thought of Ushijima seeing you come undone really turn you on that much?” Oikawa mewled, driving back onto Iwaizumi, and Iwaizumi took the chance to insert another finger, scissoring him open. “Or maybe, you’d rather it be Hinata who watches as I take you apart?” he questioned lightheartedly, as if discussing the optimal number of box jumps Oikawa should strive for daily. “He didn't get to see this side of you in Brazil, did he?”

“Fuck, Hajime—”

“Or a random stranger?” He chuckled, fingers picking up the pace. “What would your adoring fans say if they saw you at my mercy like this?” 

He smacked Oikawa again, the red hot of his skin stirring something deep within Iwaizumi. “Why?” Oikawa panted. “I was— I played well today.” 

Iwaizumi squeezed his eyes shut and willed his thoughts away from what Oikawa was referring to. At the height of his self-loathing in those early San Juan days, Oikawa had discovered a peculiar release through punishment, as if the only way he could forgive his mistakes was through penance. Iwaizumi had obliged him because he was young and horny, but also because he had never thought anything they did brought real displeasure to Oikawa — a fact that was even more apparent to his current self. 

“Yeah, but you’ve always enjoyed them too much for punishment anyway.” He paused to take in the delicious flush of Oikawa’s nape, color slowly spreading down his back. “Should I give you one for each service ace instead?” _Smack_. “As a reward?” 

“Fuck!” Oikawa lifted himself off the wall to press up against Iwaizumi, moaning when the action inadvertently pushed his fingers in deeper. Iwaizumi halted Oikawa’s ascent with a firm hand that forced him back down, growing impossibly harder at the sight of Oikawa’s hands straining in the makeshift cuffs. “Please, please, Hajime,” he said, leaving Iwaizumi to wonder if he knew what he was even begging for. 

_Smack._ He inserted a third finger, body thrumming in pleasure as Oikawa keened. “Hm, maybe next time,” he said offhandedly, raising an eyebrow when he noticed Oikawa’s hands twisting around his hips, grasping helplessly at something in the air. “What are you doing?” 

“I want—” he cried, voice trembling, swearing when Iwaizumi went back to targeting _that_ spot inside him. “Touch me, Hajime, please, take off my pants, something, _please_.”

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi mumbled, wrenching Oikawa’s hands back to their proper position. He withdrew his fingers and spat onto his palm, using it to lubricate his dick as best as he could. “Tooru,” he breathed, tip of his cock brushing against Oikawa’s twitching hole, "can we do it raw?” He definitely did not have a condom on him, and given that Oikawa was still dressed in uniform, it was even less likely that he would be carrying one. 

“Yes, yes, fuck Hajime, yes,” Oikawa whined. "I'm clean."

"Good," Iwaizumi said. "So am I." With a thrust, he was engulfed in a depraved heat that yanked the groan he was trying to stifle out of him. He heard Oikawa echo the noise and grinned weakly.

For all his bark earlier, Iwaizumi made sure his first few pumps were shallow, allowing Oikawa to adjust around him. It wasn’t until Oikawa was growling and demanding Iwaizumi to fuck him harder that he shifted, adjusting the angle of his hips before ramming straight back into Oikawa. 

“Haji—me, _ah_ ,” Oikawa mewled, pitch climbing higher and higher. Iwaizumi spanked him again and groaned when he felt Oikawa clenching up. 

“You were so good today, on the court,” he said, unthinking. “So— fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth as Tooru started matching his thrusts. “So strong,” he managed. “Tooru,” his hand circled around to provide much needed relief to Oikawa’s neglected cock, setting a brisk pace. Oikawa shivered, the roughness from Iwaizumi’s callouses heightening the sensation of each stroke. “So tight.”

Then, so softly Oikawa thought he might’ve imagined it, a whisper, “Mine.” 

And what could he do but respond, in a voice just as quiet, “Yours.”

When they came near simultaneously soon after; when Iwaizumi was having the worst time of his life trying to untie Oikawa’s hands; when they were cleaning up in adjacent sinks, resolutely not making eye contact; when they went their separate ways upon exiting the bathroom, parting with an awkward, congratulatory grunt from Iwaizumi and an embarrassed pout-frown concoction from Oikawa; when they disappeared down a hallway, down a corner, down a street — neither of them allowed the new words on the tip of their tongues to slip past, waiting impatiently for them to simmer and evaporate before they allowed their mouths to open, breathing out a frustrated sigh. 

—

Draped over an armchair in their hotel lobby, Atsumu shot Iwaizumi a dirty glare as he walked in through the revolving door. “What?” Iwaizumi asked, raising an eyebrow. _Have you been waiting in ambush?_ was what he meant, but it didn't seem like a good time to say something that might piss the Miya setter off even more. 

“Ya _know_ what,” Atsumu accused. 

Without giving too much thought to how Atsumu would have discovered what Iwaizumi thought he had discovered, Iwaizumi blurted out, “Like you didn’t comfort fuck Sa—” 

Atsumu gasped, face twisting in horror. “ _What_?” he squeaked. Iwaizumi vaguely registered giggling from across the room as his own face paled. “What?” he repeated defensively, not knowing why but knowing that he had to. 

“The last point!” he said, positively blushing. “I saw ya lookin’ at yer pretty setter with that dumb smile.” Iwaizumi was staring at the ground like it would magically come to his rescue and swallow him whole. “What were ya thinkin’!?” 

The silence between them was palpable but Iwaizumi was content to let it stretch on for as long as Atsumu would allow it. “Well?” he demanded.

Iwaizumi cleared his throat. “D-Don’t worry about it.” 

Atsumu snorted. “Whatever,” he said, and Iwaizumi was already on his heels, marching to the elevators as quickly as his feet would take him. Atsumu crossed his arms against his chest, sinking deeper into the cushion. “I don’t even wanna know.” 

Iwaizumi didn’t grace him with a response. When the elevator finally opened up, he rushed inside and started jamming the _Close_ button as if his life depended on it. He busied himself with his phone as soon as the doors started sliding back together, in case Atsumu was still staring him down, before realizing he actually had messages to attend to. 

His finger hovered hesitantly over the latest unread email. Just as he was about to click on it, his phone lit up with a call from the group chat with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, and Iwaizumi sighed, wondering what they were going to give him shit for this time.

—

Nights after a big win were usually Oikawa’s favorite. Yet, for a reason he refused to acknowledge, he has never felt as restless as he was right now. He tried everything — meditating, a nice, long bath, socializing with his teammates over dinner — but it was 7PM and he was still buzzing with the wrong kind of energy, feeling as though one little touch or misspoken word would set him off. 

He set the ball against the wall and returned it with a spike as it bounced back. There wasn’t a great variety of drills he could do alone at the local gym — the one officially allotted to their team adhering to a schedule too tightly split up amongst several other national teams for Oikawa to take advantage of outside regular practice — but he had to try as a last resort. Volleyball has never failed to bring him peace of mind before.

His thoughts drifted easily to the mental tome of _Conversations with Iwa-chan re: Our Long Distance Relationship_ he kept around, reluctantly recording each iteration of the argument over the years. It was always Oikawa who initiated them: “Irvine,” he had muttered skeptically; “Japan?” he had cried. And always, Iwaizumi who pacified when he announced something equally drastic: “Argentina, huh?” he had asked, with wonder and a little pain, Oikawa already crying beside him; “Naturalization,” he had repeated, voice trailing off somewhere Oikawa couldn’t reach, left only with the sound of his own heart hammering away in his chest. 

_Japan is home_ , Iwaizumi had said the one time he even came close to encroaching upon Oikawa’s domain of demand. Even then, he had softened it with an inquiry, _Isn’t it?_

But each time Oikawa had considered the question, it wasn't necessarily Japan he saw: christening their first adult bed in Iwaizumi's first adult apartment in Tokyo; dinner on the beach, California sun suspended permanently in that pinkish hue that softened Iwaizumi’s features, for a moment it was like they were back in Miyagi; running down the colorful streets of Argentina, Iwaizumi hot on his heels; a long toss across the court, and every spike, set, receive it was built upon. 

So, no — it wasn’t Japan or any other geographical location. Oikawa caught the ball prematurely and pressed it against his chest, sinking down to sit against the wall next to his bottle of water. For him, it has always been a person. 

If he retired after Los Angeles, that would mean another seven years before he could return to Japan. He wondered if that would be enough time for him to finally become sick of volleyball or if Iwaizumi’s curse would win out after all. 

And what if it did? A future where he gave everything up for Iwaizumi just to discover that he had miscalculated would ruin them past the point of recovery. Oikawa took a deep breath and tried to calm the rising tides of his emotions. He could live with a great many things fueled by a vague notion of hope, but the finality of resentment would be hard to bear, even for him.

—

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi called out, fist landing steady knocks on the door to Oikawa’s room. “You there?” He gave it a few seconds before he started frowning at the lack of a response. “Oikawa,” he repeated, “we need to talk.” 

“Iwa-chan,” came a deep, non-Oikawa voice. Iwaizumi whipped his head around to find Argentina’s libero unlocking his own door, staring bemusedly at a reddening Iwaizumi. He cursed inwardly at Oikawa’s penchant for the dumb nickname. “Tooru,” he pointed at Oikawa’s room and shook his head. “Gym.” 

Iwaizumi backed away from the door, raising a hand in gratitude as the other man disappeared inside his own room. “Thank you,” he returned in English, before his brain fully caught up with the information he was just handed. 

_Gym_? he thought incredulously when it did, immediately storming down the hallway to head for said gym and give Oikawa a piece of his mind.

“Gym?” he yelled, this time out loud from the entrance to the volleyball court at Oikawa’s stupidly perfect serve form. A small part of him relished darkly in the yip and less than graceful stumbling out of the mid-air backbend that followed. 

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa said wide-eyed, managing to stick the landing perfectly anyway. Iwaizumi tried not to roll his eyes. “I swear this isn’t what it looks like.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I’m not overworking myself!” he exclaimed preemptively. “It's— I don't do that anymore. You know that.” He was in front of Iwaizumi, hands gripping his shoulders passionately. 

“I thought I did,” Iwaizumi responded coolly, both eyebrows raised. 

“I was just,” he gestured vaguely at the court, “doing some drills. Y’know, to clear my head and stuff.” The last part came out softer, as if he had been reluctant to say it. Iwaizumi understood — it wasn’t like he had to think too hard to figure out what prompted Oikawa’s need for head clearing. 

Iwaizumi found the tight stretch of his lips slowly relaxing as he decided that Oikawa was to be believed. He glanced past the man, as if verifying something, before sidestepping around him and walking over to where the ball had come to rest by the net, reflecting in a pool of warm blues and yellows on the polished floor. He picked it up with one hand, fingers curling around it as he stuck it against his hips.

“Well, since we’re already here,” he said, absolutely not fuzzy at the way Oikawa perked up instantly, eyes sparkling, “should we play a game?” 

Oikawa nodded. 

They enlisted the help of two extremely willing guys from the net over in no time, hardly surprising Iwaizumi considering Oikawa’s newfound popularity as the Japan born and raised setter who got away. There was a polite request for a selfie and the cursory, “We’re obviously no match for you, Oikawa-senshu,” barely covering up their eagerness to even get the chance to _lose_ to the man before everything was settled. 

Iwaizumi watched from a distance as it all unfolded, something fierce blossoming in his chest. He had been the first to announce Oikawa’s position as the starting setter on Argentina’s national team in the Seijoh sans Oikawa group chat, even though they weren’t on speaking terms back then and he was pretty sure Oikawa had already told Hanamaki and Matsukawa at least. It didn’t matter; it was the same for every other milestone in Oikawa’s career — Iwaizumi made it a point to be the bearer of good news. His poorest kept secret was that he followed everything surrounding Oikawa religiously on social media — a fact his idiot friends never stopped abusing — even if he had implied the opposite to Oikawa when they hung out weeks ago.

But this was far different from reading about his successes online. To witness strangers recognize him, _idolize_ him the way he had wanted back in high school, the way he deserved to be, was different. To hear his name followed by the honorific reserved for athletes, no longer the Oikawa- _kun_ Iwaizumi had dragged out from a similar looking gym one too many times, but the Oikawa- _senshu_ who had no need for Iwaizumi’s tough love, or really, Iwaizumi, was different.

His heart clenched even as the fire burnt on. He stowed his sadness to make way for pride.

“Ready?” Oikawa called out from behind him. There were affirmations from across the net. Oikawa flashed them a smile before turning his attention over to Iwaizumi. “What about you, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi nodded, meeting his gaze. Oikawa’s smile grew just a bit wider. 

He hurled the ball in the air after a sped up version of his pre-serve. Iwaizumi noted the lack of power behind the swing of his arm and realized Oikawa was holding back. Petty, childish Oikawa, now slightly more grown up, was holding back, he marveled, almost missing the ball that was quickly coming back his way.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa snapped, bringing him out of his reverie. Iwaizumi hastily took a few steps back and stretched both hands out before him, forearms stinging slightly where the ball ricocheted off. “I get that there's a difference in talent,” Oikawa continued even as his eyes locked onto the ball, hands coming up to form his triangle, “but can you _try_ to get on my level?” 

Iwaizumi would retort with something equally snarky but he was already in the middle of a run-up for his first high-stakes spike in ages. He couldn't risk screwing it up somehow. The leather fell into his hand where he expected it to, and Oikawa would later tell their friends, much to Iwaizumi's chagrin, that he had let out a moan when he spiked it straight through the block.

“Good?” Oikawa asked as Iwaizumi descended, knowing it was. 

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said without any pretense. “Good as always.”

Oikawa served a few more times before letting up, quickly grasping that it would be kind of cruel to the casual volleyball players they were up against if they won off of his service aces alone. Iwaizumi spent a few more seconds marveling at that consideration too as the opposing team prepared to serve.

“I got it!” Oikawa called, digging the ball back up with ease once the enemy team hit it over the net. 

Iwaizumi, who was moving on muscle memory alone, shifted slightly closer to the center as the ball flew toward him. He reached for the ceiling, fingers twitching in anticipation, and set it over to Oikawa with a flick of his wrists. It was a bit short but Oikawa compensated magnificently and scored them the point. 

“Nice kill!” Iwaizumi said, hand reaching out instinctively for Oikawa, who slapped the outstretched palm in a familiar handshake, gaze lingering at the contact before returning back across the room.

“What?” Iwaizumi teased, catching Oikawa's stare. “Missed me?” 

“I missed playing with you,” he amended. “There’s a difference.” 

“Is there?” Iwaizumi asked, executing a noticeably less powerful serve. Their opponents bumped and spiked it back easily, but Iwaizumi was ready for the receive, passing the ball exactly where Oikawa had materialized to set it.

He hadn’t been completely lying when he said that volleyball was the thing he understood most. Oikawa was such a deep-rooted extension of the sport that they were practically inseparable concepts to Iwaizumi, and playing with him has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

He swooped both arms back as he leapt forward, revving into a run before taking flight. Iwaizumi’s right shoulder was turned open slightly toward Oikawa, and from this vantage point he could make out the look of pure concentration on the setter’s face, as if this was a match worth his focus and Iwaizumi a spiker worth his attention. Then, as if time had suddenly slowed, he saw each minute increment of the ball’s arc as it moved through its trajectory until it was finally aligned with the face of his palm. 

Iwaizumi smiled, closing his eyes as he struck it down in a huge cross-court shot. 

Oikawa drew in a sharp breath, the pounding of his heart not having much to do with the physical rigor of the game. “Why?” he asked, slightly breathless, at an Iwaizumi who was staring at the red of his palm with the most self-satisfied smile Oikawa has ever seen. He turned to look at Oikawa in confusion and the vulnerability Oikawa saw made him swallow thickly. “Why did you close your eyes?” 

“Huh,” Iwaizumi said, shrugging, like he hadn't even realized. “I don't know. Just felt right.”

“You could’ve missed,” Oikawa said. 

Iwaizumi grinned, bright as the moon. “But I didn’t.”

The set concluded with their win soon enough — Oikawa apologizing for not holding back while the two men thanked him for even giving them a chance. Iwaizumi went to pick up after the both of them: Oikawa's water bottle, a stray towel, and their phones carelessly abandoned on the floor. He was about to put his away when, in a moment of inspiration, he opened up the camera app and snapped a photo of Oikawa flashing a polished smile, a hand scratching the back of his head. Another as he waved the strangers off. Another as he swiveled on his heels and the public façade faded to reveal the smile only Iwaizumi was privy to; mouth wide around sounds he could hear even if he hadn’t been there to take the photo. _Iwa-chan_. 

Another as Oikawa realized he was on camera and there were hands shooting up to block his face. “If you’re trying to catch my bad side, Iwa-chan," he singsonged almost threateningly, walking over to Iwaizumi, "I have none." 

From behind his phone, Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he said, gravitating toward Oikawa, unable to resist his pull. “Then why are you hiding?” 

“My face is a precious commodity. I can’t just let you take pictures of me for _free_ ,” he explained with a scoff. 

Iwaizumi laughed, and suddenly Oikawa was right there, meeting him in the middle. He lowered his phone and raised his other hand to trace the sharp angle of Oikawa’s jawline. “What will it cost me?” he murmured. 

Oikawa’s hands bunched up in his shirt, pulling Iwaizumi in by his collar. “More than you can possibly afford,” he said, bringing their lips to touch. 

It shouldn’t be romantic, making out in an overly-bright volleyball court that reeked of leather and sweat. But Iwaizumi’s lips were moving languidly against his, dragging for just the right amount of friction, parting to allow the hint of a tongue, and somehow it was. There was no overarching need they had to fulfill, no show of dominance to be performed; just the reassociation of the highs of volleyball with each other.

Oikawa pulled away first, opening his eyes to be greeted by the warmth on Iwaizumi’s face that seemed to match the warmth coursing through him.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi said. _Again_ , Oikawa wanted to demand. _Say it again._ “That was fun.” 

“Yeah,” Oikawa gushed, not caring if he came off overzealous.

Iwaizumi chuckled, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind Oikawa’s ear. “Yeah.”

When his chuckle evolved into full-blown laughter, Oikawa found himself laughing along. His fingers made their way between Iwaizumi’s eyebrows, smoothening out the tiny frown that cropped up when he was laughing too hard. His cheeks were flushed and, Oikawa noted, the color hadn’t been there a minute ago. 

Like the overwhelming need to play after watching an exciting match, something unbidden and full rose up within him. This time Oikawa embraced it, cradling Iwaizumi’s face in both hands to kiss him again. 

_T_ _his could be enough_ , Oikawa thought, desperately wanting it to be. 

Right now, their hearts beat in tandem.

Right now, Iwaizumi ruled by his side, on a court woven in reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the most self-indulgent thing ever. the random implied ship. the two dumb mains playing volleyball together. the last few paragraphs!!! sigh, they have my heart. and yes i've been going back and forth between 6 and 8 chapters but ultimately decided on 8 which means we're just past the halfway point now. exciting times!
> 
> also super random and 100% not canon but consider:  
> iwaizumi: good thing hinata isn't here to see u like this huh  
> hinata who has been wrapped in a towel in the very last shower the whole time, too afraid to move and accidentally make a sound, about to die from so much secondhand embarrassment: please god if you exist,
> 
> alright, i'll leave you with that. 'til next week ;)


	6. August 7, 2021

“Oikawa!” the voice of his childhood boomed across the room. His fingers stilled around the lanyard he had been fiddling with, taking a deep breath in preparation for what was coming. On an otherwise normal day in spring nearly a decade ago, they had forged a promise — giving life to a dream Oikawa had nursed for as long as he could remember. Now, it was finally time to see it to completion. 

He saw Matias raise an eyebrow in textbook Team Captain concern and shook his head almost imperceptibly in response. Matias nodded, understanding, and continued ushering the rest of the team out of the building to dinner before anyone could interrupt what was clearly building up to a moment. 

Oikawa turned around to the sight of Iwaizumi pushing past a throng of people, running as quickly as he could toward Oikawa. He watched in awe as Iwaizumi fought against the current, slipping past the group that had congregated in front of him while flashing him a grin. It struck Oikawa that this must be what devotion looked like.

“Congratulations, Tooru,” Iwaizumi said, sweeping Oikawa off his feet in one smooth motion, as if he had been training his entire life for this moment.

“Hajime,” Oikawa whispered into the side of his face as his arms came around Iwaizumi’s neck, allowing himself to be spirited away. He laughed, carefree. “When did you get so strong?” 

Iwaizumi brought a hand up to card it gently through Oikawa’s hair, still slick with sweat. “I have to keep up with you somehow, don't I?” he replied.

Between the two of them, Oikawa has always been the more pliable one — not by much, but he was rarely stoic in the face of judgement. It showed in his subtle compromises, invisible to everyone but Iwaizumi. Usually, the fact that an entire arena’s worth of people — the number growing by the minute as more of them piled out of the stands after the medal presentation — seemed to be staring at them would deter Oikawa from any more public displays of affection. He loved attention, yes, but only on his own terms, and the clear invasion of privacy would be his cue to untangle himself from Iwaizumi’s embrace and bow out.

Today, he found that he couldn’t give more of a damn about all the things he should do.

Oikawa was untouchable with strong arms wrapping around his waist, silver around his neck, and fearless when he tilted his face downward to capture Iwaizumi’s lips in a chaste kiss. 

When he finally descended, he nodded sagely. “Victory sex would be an issue if you can’t even do this much,” he said. There was a pause as he tucked a chin between two fingers, prompting Iwaizumi to roll his eyes preemptively. If the first half of his train of thought was anything to go by, the second half was probably going to be just as much of a wreck. He grabbed Oikawa’s wrist and led them away from the curious onlookers that were starting to gather before he did anything he would actually regret. “What about when I win gold?” Oikawa said at last, issuing a challenge. “How will you keep up with me then?” 

Iwaizumi growled even as he felt something in his chest twinge slightly at the presumption. Winning gold meant more Olympics. Winning gold meant Oikawa was committed to at least another three years of twelve hours and ten thousand miles between them. But, he cocked his head to take in copper hair, silver medal, golden boy, and he knew Oikawa wasn’t being presumptuous. 

It would take a special kind of monster to deny the greatness Oikawa Tooru was destined for, and unfortunately for Iwaizumi, he was only human.

“C’mon,” he grumbled, ignoring Oikawa even as his fingers tightened around the other man's wrist. “Hanamaki and Matsukawa are waiting.”

—

Oikawa heard the explosion of confetti before his vision kicked in, taking its sweet time adjusting to the dimness of the bar. When he could finally see again, he realized that it was devoid of any other patrons save for their group of friends. He barely had time to register surprise at having a whole, albeit small, bar rented out on his account before there were hands everywhere — in his hair, around his neck, on his ribs — and his sight was stolen from him once more as he squeezed his eyes shut against the incoming onslaught of bodies. Beside him, he heard Iwaizumi chuckling.

“Stop!” he screeched, snapping his still closed eyes to approximately where Iwaizumi was standing. “And you! Don’t just stand there and laugh, help me!” 

That obviously served to do the opposite of what Oikawa wanted. Iwaizumi was bent at his waist, clutching at his sides in a miserable attempt to impede the flurry of giggles as Hanamaki made it his life’s mission to thoroughly mess up Oikawa’s hair. Matsukawa looked like he was about a second away from strangling Oikawa to death in joy, and Yahaba, Shinji and Kyoutani worked on lifting Oikawa up on their shoulders. Kindaichi stood awkwardly at a distance while Kunimi, phone in hand, silent smile, took over what was usually Hanamaki’s responsibility. 

“You bastard,” Hanamaki exclaimed, obviously taking pleasure in having an official reason to ruin Oikawa's impeccably styled hair. “You really showed us.”

“Yeah, what the fuck,” Matsukawa agreed, hugging Oikawa even tighter. “Can’t believe you actually had it in you.” 

When that spurred everyone in the room to provide some kind of backhanded congratulatory exclamation, Oikawa pounced on their collective, momentary lapse in concentration to slip out of their grasp, kneeing Yahaba and Shinji for good measure, Kyoutani managing to jump out of the way in the nick of time. “O, ye of little faith,” he said dryly over Yahaba’s expletives and something about watching the power of an Olympic knee from Shinji. “I’m touched, guys, really.”

“Hey,” Iwaizumi said, once the last of his laughter has dissolved. He lifted a finger to point straight at Oikawa. “I’ve never doubted you for a second.” 

Matsukawa, thinking back to Iwaizumi's fanboying in their mistake of a group chat, scoffed. “What else is new?” 

Hanamaki, thinking back to the many nights where he and Matsukawa had the misfortune of listening to Iwaizumi alternate between pouring his heart out about how he much he missed Oikawa and asking if they had seen Oikawa's killer serve in his last match against Poland, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, Iwaizumi. Always the bigger man.” 

Oikawa, in the greatest of moods, wasn't thinking. He yanked Iwaizumi's finger until it was a breath away from his lips, looking for all intents and purposes like he was about to give it a pseudo-blowjob in front of their friends. It was wildly inappropriate and made no sense in or out of context, but nobody in the room would put it past Oikawa to go through with it. 

“What—” Iwaizumi squeaked, as everyone else zeroed in on finger and lips, not daring to move.

“What?” Oikawa shot back, casually releasing his hold on Iwaizumi’s hand to properly thread their fingers together. “Wouldn’t my best supporter like to be thanked with the privilege of holding my hand?” 

Hanamaki smacked him on the back of his head with gusto, like he had been waiting to do that for years. “Fuck you, Oikawa," he said that like it had been pent up for a while too. "Stop making me relive high school.” 

“You guys are disgusting,” Kyoutani growled, and Oikawa was affronted by the chorus of agreement that followed. “I thought we were celebrating _me_ ,” he whined.

“Well, that’s on you for thinking that,” Matsukawa responded coolly. 

Oikawa huffed and skittered over to the tables his old teammates had joined together without sparing any of them a second glance. He dragged a chair over to the head of the tables and, with all the pompousness of a newly-coronated king, plopped down on his throne. “Because this is _my_ win,” he said, finger jabbing the wooden surface for emphasis, “and we _are_ celebrating _me_.” He smirked at Hanamaki’s resigned sigh and preened when Iwaizumi slid wordlessly into the chair on his right. 

“I have to say, I’m surprised you managed to keep this a secret from me, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, kicking the foot of his chair lightly. 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa snorted in their annoyingly synchronized way. “ _Please_ ,” Hanamaki said. “You give him too much credit.”

“Takahiro,” Iwaizumi warned, only for the man in question to chuckle.

“We didn’t tell him everyone else was coming,” Matsukawa answered, sitting back in his chair with his legs crossed, rightfully smug. “He can’t ruin it if he doesn’t know.”

“ _Issei_.”

Oikawa gasped. “That’s _genius_.”

“I’m right here,” Iwaizumi seethed. 

Yahaba slammed two copies of the menu down on the table. “Alright, enough with the chitchat,” he said, voice suddenly taking on a dangerous edge. “It’s time to get fucked up.” He slid the sheet of paper under his right hand over to Oikawa, bowing his head in mock deference. “First round’s on me.” 

As tempting as that sounded, Oikawa could only sigh and shake his head in refusal. 

“What do you mean?” Yahaba shrieked, as if he was offended on Oikawa’s behalf. Beside him, Kyoutani gave Oikawa a nod of respect. 

Oikawa considered his options. He could tell them the truth, which was that his athletic trainer — the actual Argentinian one and the one sitting next to him, also looking at him in approval — had imposed a strict alcohol ban for the near future in light of all the Olympic drinking that had taken place, or he could, with all the innocence he had lost, say, “How will I fuck Iwa-chan with whiskey dick?” 

This time, Oikawa allowed himself to take pride in the chorus of groans that followed. He propped both elbows up on the table, cushioning his chin on a bed of fingers, and savored the scene before him: Iwaizumi screeching into his hands; Hanamaki snatching the piece of paper from Yahaba to crumple it up and take aim at Oikawa, who skillfully dodged the projectile; Matsukawa rolling his eyes so far back Oikawa was convinced they would fall off; Yahaba with a hand in Kyoutani’s shirt, angrily asking him to do something about the situation; Kyoutani aggressively failing to hold back his murderous intent; Shinji trying to pacify the lot of them but not knowing where to start; Kunimi still quietly filming the whole thing while Oikawa decided he liked this one the most, at least until Kindaichi leaned over the table to stutter out a request to inspect Oikawa’s medal, _if that was okay with you, Oikawa-senpai_ , and Oikawa’s favor shifted just as quickly. All of them except Iwaizumi with the Argentinian flag painted on their faces, wearing it like a badge of honor. 

A warm ray of light caught on the silver as he handed it to Kindaichi, and for a moment it shone proud and golden. 

Iwaizumi was the first to notice. His fingers went lax in Kindaichi’s hair and Kindaichi, reacting to Iwaizumi freezing up, realized what was happening and nudged Kunimi, who dutifully pointed the camera back at Oikawa. Soon, the entire table was silent; expectant. Oikawa was looking at them like they were about to walk onto the court at the start of a match, and all eight of them could hear the words as clearly now as ten years ago. 

“Thank you,” he said instead, thumbing the medal Kindaichi had passed back, “for believing in me.” 

The silence stretched on until Hanamaki let out a sigh, slouching in his seat. “Thank you for always failing to read the room," he countered, but Oikawa’s smile did not waver. 

Next to him, Iwaizumi fixed him with an unreadable look. When the table reverted back to its regularly scheduled programming and noise level, he said, so softly that Oikawa could barely make out what he was saying, so fervently that the words were forever seared into Oikawa’s mind, “Thank you for giving us something to believe in.” 

Kunimi’s lips twitched as he finally ended the recording.

—

Tokyo at night was gravely beautiful: a monolith of sparkling lights and raised skyscrapers; the Skytree a beacon in the distance. Oikawa admired the view with the conscience of someone who understood this might be their last chance to do so. He crossed his arms against the railing and closed his eyes as a summer breeze swept past him, coaxing his hair away from his face to settle behind his ears. The weather was pleasant, hinging on the side of warm just the way Oikawa liked it. He allowed himself this simple pleasure as Iwaizumi shuffled in closer to his left, mirroring his stance. 

“Pretty," Oikawa said, light as the wind. Iwaizumi glanced at him and nodded, eyes half-lidded and soft.

On the way back from his surprise party, Oikawa had asked Iwaizumi if he was free. “Yeah, why?” came his simple response. They should talk, Oikawa said, lips pressed into a tight smile, and Iwaizumi had grunted tersely. Oikawa had been planning on leading them back to his room, finger hovering over his floor in the elevator, when he caught sight of the single, non-numerical button. Oikawa tapped it before he could second-guess himself. 

On the rooftop of his building in the Village with a medal in his pocket; on the second last night of his stay in Tokyo with the man he has wanted his entire life wanting him back — Oikawa would've expected the mood to be more lighthearted.

He rested his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, lips curling as Iwaizumi straightened to adjust his height so the position was more comfortable on Oikawa’s neck. He exhaled, realizing then that he had been holding his breath. The simple gesture was a timely reminder this wasn't just any ex-boyfriend. Iwaizumi was, before anything else, his best friend. They kept no secrets from each other because they couldn't. They read each other like reflections in a mirror because they have spent their whole lives trying to understand the other person. He could be honest with Iwaizumi because there really was no point in doing the opposite.

“When you said this was home," Oikawa began, deciding they might as well start by addressing the elephant in the room, "did you mean it?” There was heat on his back in the shape of a hand. Oikawa hummed in contentment as he leaned into the soothing strokes. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Iwaizumi shake his head.

Oikawa executed a small victory pose. “Kuroo enlightened me,” Iwaizumi said, facing straight ahead and missing the undercurrent of relief beneath Oikawa's easygoing countenance. After a pause, he added, grimacing as he recalled the memory, “Kenma still looks at me as if he's lost all faith in humanity.”

If he could hear the twinkling of a star, Iwaizumi thought that must be what Oikawa’s laugh sounded like. He leveraged the hand that had settled on Oikawa's waist to pull him in closer.

"You deserve it," Oikawa said, playful. Iwaizumi made a noise of agreement, nuzzling the side of his face into Oikawa's hair. "Probably." The fine strands tickled slightly, but he couldn't resist the domesticity of the action. "Is it my turn now?" he asked.

“What?”

“You asked a question, didn't you?” Iwaizumi explained, like Oikawa was the one who was slow on the uptake when he was the one making up new rules. “Now it’s my turn.” 

Even though he heard the eye roll in Oikawa’s voice and sensed the petulant pout forming on his lips, he knew, without a doubt, that Oikawa was going to say yes. Not because he was easy — far from that. He was just the kind of guy who would suffer uselessly his whole life even if he had been the one to let Iwaizumi go. He pretended and pretended, hiding behind mean comments and a nasty personality, even when his heart was and would always be bigger; his love more steady. Oikawa was selfish when it came to volleyball, and as if to compensate for that, he gave Iwaizumi everything else. 

His fingers tightened around Oikawa as if that would somehow convey his feelings. He cursed his own deficiencies, the weakness in him that begged him to ask even when it was clear to him that he had no claim to anything. "Is winning gold more important than me?" he choked out, when he could no longer withstand the question burning into the tip of his tongue.

There were tufts against the side of his neck as Oikawa shifted. “I don’t think so,” he said with some difficulty, the words syrupy thick. Receiving the medal was exhilarating the same way that night in the gym with Iwaizumi had been. He wanted more — of one and the other. 

“You don’t think so,” Iwaizumi repeated. “You’re not sure?” 

A pause. “I’m pretty sure,” Oikawa said thoughtfully, “but not completely.” 

Iwaizumi contemplated his answer. “Okay,” he said at last, heart in his throat. For someone who had always seemed to fall short of volleyball in Oikawa's eyes, _pr_ _etty sure_ was more than he had ever dared to hope for.

Oikawa cleared his throat. "My turn, Iwa-chan," he said. "If it's not Japan," his voice petered out as he bit into his lower lip, "is it me?" He felt a faint blush spreading across his cheeks and dug his face deeper into the nook of Iwaizumi’s neck in retaliation.

"I think so," Iwaizumi responded easily. "I mean, I'm not completely sure, but I'm pretty sure—" Oikawa gave him a shove, glaring like he meant business. Iwaizumi knew he earned it but couldn't help the chuckle that left him. "Yes, Tooru," he said, long-suffering. His hands snaked around Oikawa to draw him back in and Oikawa held on tight so he wouldn't melt into nothing from the fondness in Iwaizumi's voice. "Of course." 

His hand glided down the cotton of Iwaizumi's t-shirt to settle similarly on the small of his back as he turned to face him. Familiar streaks of green and brown greeted Oikawa, earthy like the backyard adventures of a different era where Iwaizumi, cardboard sword in hand, had sworn to protect Oikawa from anything and everything, and Oikawa, comically big flower crown adorning his soft locks, had let him. It was grounding — the shade that tethered him when he drifted too far from land, a lighthouse of all his best dreams and favorite memories. 

“Can you imagine?” Oikawa asked, in a tone that suggested to Iwaizumi that he could, and had. “Imagine a world where we’re both,” he paused, trying to find his words, settling at last on, “content. Just ordinary people, living ordinary lives.” He was looking at Iwaizumi, but at the same time, he was looking through him at somewhere far away. “We share a one bedroom apartment through college because our schools are only thirty minutes apart by train. We stress about finding a job our senior year and celebrate when we land one, drinking all the beer we want. And we stay like that forever and ever.” His gaze drifted away uncertainly before snapping back onto Iwaizumi’s eyes, as if compelled by some magnetic force. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Iwaizumi mulled over the scenario. Oikawa in a suit. Oikawa arriving at his nine to five three hours earlier than he needed to because that was just who he was as a person. Oikawa rapidly climbing the corporate ladder. Oikawa winning other forms of gold.

And how would Iwaizumi fit into the picture? He would also have to trade the polo shirts for three-piece suits. He would stay late enough to drag Oikawa home at a slightly more reasonable hour. He would vow to defeat him and to do that he would rise to the top with him, together or separately.

Iwaizumi laughed. “Yeah, but we’d fuck that up too somehow.” He laughed again when Oikawa scrunched up his face in annoyance. “You think we’d ever be _content_ with anything?” He shook his head, sighing exasperatedly. “Dumbass. If it’s not volleyball, it’s gonna be something else.” 

“Well, what does that say about me then?” Oikawa demanded, anger flaring up in his eyes. Iwaizumi reached out to cup the side of his face, caressing his cheek in an attempt to calm him down. “Oikawa Tooru: vain, selfish, megalomaniac prioritizes being the best at anything over everything else, even the love of his life.” Timing be damned. Iwaizumi was still going to bask in giddy silence at the unexpected admission. 

“Maybe,” Iwaizumi allowed. “But I didn’t say _you_ , I said _we._ I also chose Irvine and Japan over you, remember?" Oikawa winced, trying to ignore the sting of his words. "Stop acting like you're the only one with a dream.” 

“What if I end up hating you because I regret choosing you over myself?” 

To that, Iwaizumi could only burst out laughing for a third time. When he had pictured this conversation, he had envisioned tears and cryptic layers. Maybe some yelling. Back when they were still dating, that was how all their so-called conversations had gone. Oikawa would request something inherently selfish but ultimately reasonable for the survival of their relationship, and Iwaizumi, under the guise of pacification, would leave his proposition hanging out of his own desire to take. Oikawa would become defensive, and he would follow.

Yet here was Oikawa, being a straightforward son of a gun for the first time in his life, and Iwaizumi couldn’t love him more for it. 

“Hey, there’s this thing called _compromise_. Ever heard of it?” he asked, ignoring the dirty glare Oikawa shot him. “Also, you really think you’d let something as insignificant as me stop you from becoming the best? Shut up,” Iwaizumi said at Oikawa’s frown and open mouth, “let me finish. First, it's not a bad thing to want to be the best. That's what makes you a winner, Tooru. Second, it doesn’t matter which team you're on. Argentina, Japan, anywhere in the world — you would’ve won because _you_ worked so hard for it. Because you bring out the best in all your teams.”

Oikawa leveled him with a pout. “You’re not insignificant.” 

Iwaizumi slipped around to hug him from behind, arms locking him in place as Iwaizumi tucked his chin comfortably on his shoulder. His grin was a cheeky little thing, daring out of Oikawa's line of vision. “I don’t know,” he teased. “ _Someone_ wasn’t sure if I was more important than a scrap of metal.” 

“I hate you,” Oikawa said. Empty words. Then, “An Olympic gold medal is not just a scrap—”

Iwaizumi groaned. “Seriously? Way to ruin—” 

“I love you,” Oikawa said, staring straight ahead at the lights dotting the city. His tone was assured; his words absolute. Iwaizumi smiled into his neck, lips latching onto the soft skin he found. “I love you too,” he said, after many years without. It felt like the first sip of water in a gruesome fifth set with everything on the line. It felt — even at the risk of sounding clichéd and helplessly in love — like coming home. 

The edge of Oikawa's hand brushed against Iwaizumi’s. This time, without the cowardice of tentatively hooking two fingers together first, Iwaizumi opened up his palm and clasped their hands together. Oikawa welcomed it, tightening his grip in return. He closed his eyes and experienced the world without sight. Sweat running down his temple. Callouses fitted against his like a rough yet complete puzzle. Twenty-seven years and who knew how many more to come reliably guarding his back. "Did you get a ticket yet?" he asked, frowning when Iwaizumi remained silent for a beat too long. "Aren't you coming back to Miyagi with me?" 

Iwaizumi groaned. “I was going to surprise you.”

“Oh, Iwa-chan,” he lamented affectionately. “When will you learn that’s never going to happen?” 

Iwaizumi released their hands, the sweat gathering between them proving to be too much. "Will you be sure then?" he asked, wiping his palm on his pants. 

Oikawa had to physically restrain himself from engulfing Iwaizumi in a bear hug and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Because they were just that, nothing, and Iwaizumi deserved so much more. "I will," he swore, feeling as though he had been overcome by a strange fever.

Iwaizumi let out a sigh of relief. He received the promise in carefully cupped hands and decided for once in his life that he would plant it in the most fertile soil of his mind. It was a dangerous thing — hope. Blurring the lines between poison and antidote. But this time Iwaizumi wanted to gamble on the side of optimism. So he nourished it, willed it to flourish. 

They stayed peacefully in each other’s arms for a little while longer, until the heat and humidity forced even entire bodies apart. Surprisingly content, for all of Iwaizumi’s words about how that was their impossibility. 

—

Second only to winning, Oikawa had been looking forward to the Parade of Athletes the most. The opening ceremony march was exciting, but it was also an affair of uncertainty. Joy or despair? No one had any way of knowing which side of the coin they would be cashing in at the end of the Games. While this induced some mystery that proved to be quite thrilling, no rush could ever come close to the roaring in his veins from a final whistle that called the match for his team.

Contrast that with the closing ceremony, where a thick sense of finality hung in the air and everyone knew where they stood? Oikawa definitely preferred this. The winners, save for a few of them, had been crowned. There was a clear distinction between those who tried to make a name for themselves and those who did, and it was no private matter. Medals of three tiers hung like status symbols from the necks of the chosen; the ones who have poured their life force into training, who have put just a little bit more into their sport.

And Oikawa was one of them.

It certainly also didn't hurt that he could walk with Iwaizumi this time. Behind them, Kageyama and Hinata were bickering as usual. In front of them, Ushijima and Sakusa conducted an extremely serious-looking discussion. In front of those two, Bokuto and Hoshiumi churned out one weird remark after another. Leading the pack, Aran stared at his teammates impassively before turning back to Atsumu and asking him how he managed to deal with Bokuto on the daily. 

_I beat them_ , Oikawa marveled. _All of them_. His high school rivalries had long since dissolved into abstract concepts, no longer an inextinguishable flame that ate away at his sanity. Still, the tangible value of a win felt good. He breathed it in: the taste of success, sweet as ambrosia. Then, he set his sights even higher. He had always played for gold, but today the desire did not feel like baseless fancy.

It was his right. 

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Iwaizumi advised, shoulder bumping into Oikawa’s as Kageyama shoved Hinata into them. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he made no comment otherwise. “You look like a psychopath.” 

Oikawa grinned even wider, just to piss him off. “You're telling me you're into psychopaths, Iwa-chan?” he said, leaning in closer and wiggling his eyebrows for good measure. 

“What?” Iwaizumi asked, confused and then instantly regretful as he realized he had bitten Oikawa's low-effort bait. He slapped his forehead with a strong palm, dragging it over his eyes to avoid the look he _knew_ Oikawa was giving him. 

“‘Cause you love me~” Oikawa said, teasing lilt to his voice. He tipped his head to one side and tried peeking under Iwaizumi's makeshift visor, successfully locking eyes with Iwaizumi before he shifted his hand further down his face. Oikawa held up two fingers in a cheeky V-sign and Iwaizumi removed his hand just in time to see him strike the pose. He clicked his tongue and, in one swift motion, had Oikawa trapped in a playful headlock. If he couldn't beat him in volleyball or a battle of words, well, so what? At least he had his muscles. “I take it back!” Oikawa cried. “Iwa-chan, stop!”

“You take it back?” Iwaizumi echoed, free hand coming up to ruffle Oikawa’s stupidly perfect hair. "You're gonna give up that easily, Tooru?" he asked, very intentionally ignoring the complaints stemming from the man below him about how much time had gone into styling it. “Guess I really am insignificant, huh?”

“You will be if you keep this up,” Oikawa threatened, squirming in Iwaizumi's hold. 

"Joke's on you," Iwaizumi said even as he let Oikawa go, hiding his laugh behind a huff. "Can't get any worse than ranking below a scrap of metal." Oikawa gave him a look that promised it very well could while his hands darted to his hair, trying to salvage what was left of it. “Don’t bother,” he said as a pout started to form on Oikawa's lips. “You look better like this anyway.”

Oikawa sputtered incoherently. “I do not!” he exclaimed. “That is _so_ insulting." Then, he gasped as if he had just reached an important conclusion. "Oh my god.” He placed a hand on his chest and twisted his face into an expression of pain in the most melodramatic fashion Iwaizumi has witnessed to date. It was honestly impressive. Twenty-seven years and Oikawa still managed to show him something new. “You're _gaslighting_ me, taking advantage of my emotionally vulnerable state to—” 

“Uh-huh,” Iwaizumi said. “Tell me more.”

The mask slipped off Oikawa's face as he proceeded to glare at Iwaizumi with all the ferocity he could muster. "Then don't cut me off?" he suggested, sighing when Iwaizumi said nothing in return. “I've changed my mind," he announced, stepping on Iwaizumi's toes because he could. "I really, really do hate you.”

For once, Iwaizumi tolerated the dirtying of his shoes. Right now it was more important that Oikawa saw the curl of his lips. “Nah," he said, slinging an arm around Oikawa’s neck. “By the way, I've decided that when you win gold, I'll be right there with you,” he declared.

Scoffing, Oikawa muttered, "That's easy to say." His hands were still working his bangs tirelessly, pressing them in a repeated swiping motion against his forehead in a desperate attempt to whip them back into shape. "But how, exactly?" 

“You’ll find out,” Iwaizumi said, tilting his head so he could stand almost as tall as Oikawa, and issued his own challenge, “if you stick around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY TALK!!!! ONLY TOOK THEM A WHOLE MONTH!! these idiots. (whispers furiously) these _precious_ idiots.
> 
> also just an fyi that everything will be wrapped up next chapter, with chapter 8 being more of an epilogue c:


	7. August 9, 2021

Summer days in Miyagi were characterized by rolling waves of humidity punctuated by the droning of cicadas. It was a mild creature compared to the Argentinian heat Oikawa has had to endure, not at all surprising then, when the once unbearable endeavor of idling outside no longer felt like skinny dipping in hell itself to him. 

He was perched on the swing set his dad had built for him and his sister — later claimed by Iwaizumi when Namie had outgrown it — after a tearful reunion with his mom, worn volleyball in hand. He had picked it up on his desk where it had been frozen in time next to the framed Seijoh group photo and the one of just him and Iwaizumi tacked on top of it, blue and yellow faded from constant exposure to the sun. The number of years that has flown by, increasing with each visit, heightened the bittersweet nostalgia that welled up in him every time he was reminded of the memories. 

With a practiced flick of his wrists, Oikawa tossed the ball in the air and noted detachedly that the disposition of a freefalling Mikasa was the same, whether it was here in his backyard or in center court at Ariake Arena at match point for the enemy team. He bumped it back up effortlessly and replayed that last point for what must be the several hundredth time. It had been intoxicating to win a medal at all, but as the days passed, it was the lost he fixated on. What he could’ve done better. What he could’ve done.

Volleyball wasn’t always fun. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that most of the positive feelings it netted him stemmed from the negative feelings he found in lost and failure, like a mirror of opposites. Still, it wasn’t like he could ever give it up. The sport was an ingrained, basal need. The highs and lows only served to hook him in deeper. 

In that way, he thought Iwaizumi and volleyball were alike. Of course Iwaizumi induced more joy and less pain, but even toward the tail end of their relationship when he hadn’t, or in the three year blank after that when Oikawa’s life had felt exceptionally empty, his need for Iwaizumi has never wavered. Just like one didn’t breathe only when it suited them, neither was his hunger for the man nor the sport contingent on his pleasure. 

Oikawa trapped the ball between his hands, biting his lip. There was no doubt in him that Iwaizumi was important, but could he confidently say the man was more important than winning the highest accolade in his sport? 

“Alright,” came a familiar voice, “what is it this time?” 

He lifted his head to stare into a pair of intelligently twinkling eyes. The woman before him, dressed in an expensive-looking pantsuit, looked eerily like a carbon copy of their mom. “Namie-nee-chan!” he exclaimed, kicking his legs out excitedly. He bounced up to give her a hug. “Did you just get off work?” 

Namie returned the embrace enthusiastically, settling into the seat next to his once they broke apart. She crossed her legs as her arms looped around the chains. “Yes, but don’t try to change the subject, Tooru,” she warned.

Oikawa blinked in confusion, as if to ask why she would think something was up. Namie scoffed. “The last time you sat here practically exuding angst was when you were deciding between Argentina and Japan.” She mimed clutching a volleyball the way Oikawa was doing. “ _Oh, Iwa-chan_ ," she said, a clear mockery of his distress. " _What would happen to us if I left to pursue my dreams_?"

“Maybe I’m just feeling sentimental,” he argued, hands having drifted to cover his ears in the middle of her monologue. 

“Sure, but if that was the case, you'd be clinging onto your precious Iwa-chan right now," Namie said, extending a finger smugly. "Why wouldn’t you be at his place unless you were brooding over him?” Oikawa rolled his eyes, looking down lest his face gave away more than he wanted it to. “So tell me what's wrong."

“I hate you,” he sulked. “You're so mean to me.” 

“Of course,” she agreed, sounding pretty pleased about it too. She leaned forward in her seat to catch his gaze, making sure she had his attention before continuing, “I’m your sister, Tooru. Together, Hajime and I can bully you into anything.” 

Oikawa huffed, fingers tracing abstract shapes on the leather surface of the ball. “Brutes, the both of you,” he accused, even as he mulled over how to broach the subject. What was wrong? _Everything_ was too vague, even if it felt that way. _Nothing_ was obviously a lie. _Is Iwa-chan more important to me than a gold medal_ was the heart of it, but Namie wouldn't know the answer to that. 

“Do you think I should move back to Japan for him?” he managed eventually, keeping his eyes downcast.

Namie studied him, worry marking her features, before sighing in resignation. "You realize that's the same question as ten years ago?" she asked as Oikawa tried not to wince. Ignoring his non-answer, Namie kicked herself into motion, tucking her legs underneath the swing to prevent them from catching on the ground. "Do you think he'd want you to?"

When Oikawa nodded, Namie made a sound of disbelief. “What?" she cried. " _No_ , of course not.” 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Oikawa asked, bristling. “Are you saying Iwa-chan doesn’t want to be with me? Because I’ll have you know—”

“Listen here, my dumb little brother,” she said, skidding to a halt to cut him off with a pinch of his cheeks. “There are two people in the entire world who wholeheartedly expect you to put yourself before anyone else, and that’s Hajime and I.” She stuck her thumb into her sternum. “Personally, I think your selfishness is a disease, even if it gives you a competitive edge. But Hajime,” she scoffed, “that boy takes pride in your ambition. He’ll probably throw a fit if you gave up volleyball for anything, even himself.” She paused, as if recalling a memory, and her voice was noticeably softer when she started speaking again. “You should see the way he talks about you. He's so proud of you, Tooru. Probably more than you are of yourself.” Oikawa pursed his lips. “The bullying is a bonus for having to put up with this side of you, by the way.”

The thing with sisters, Oikawa thought distastefully, was that they knew they were always right. It would be one thing for them to simply be right; it was the rubbing of righteousness in his face that he loathed. “I want to date him and he wants to date me,” he said, completely bypassing any kind of acknowledgment that what she said had made a lot of sense. “But I can’t do that if I stay in Argentina.”

Namie frowned. “Why not?” 

“Did you forget about the last ten years?" Oikawa shot back. Sure, he had spared her the gory details, but what he had told her should be enough. "It was hard.” 

“Tooru,” Namie chided in the mom voice Oikawa both hated and found hilarious at the same time, “do you love volleyball more than Hajime?” 

Oikawa drove his forehead into the volleyball on his lap, barely flinching at the impact. That was _the_ question, wasn't it? “I’m still trying to figure that out too, thanks,” he said dryly. Honestly, he should've just asked her first. At least then Namie wouldn't be able to use it against him like this. 

Both of them remained silent and unmoving — Oikawa willing his problems away by rejecting their existence and Namie trying not to combust in the face of her brother's stupidity — until Namie released another annoyed sigh. “God, you’re such an idiot,” she said. “Let me put it this way. If you could get Hajime to move to Argentina by giving up volleyball completely, would you?”

"No," Oikawa replied immediately. 

“And if you could win gold by cutting Hajime out of your life permanently, would you?”

"No," Oikawa repeated, again without any hesitation. 

“Okay then,” Namie said, throwing both hands up in the air. “What does that tell you?” 

“Hmm,” Oikawa said, shifting so that his eyes peeked out from beyond the curve of the ball. “I want them both?” 

“Yeah, dummy, we knew that,” Namie said. “But which one do you want more?” 

“I don't know!” he whined. “Why would we be sitting here otherwise? Aren't you supposed to be giving me advice?" he demanded, bringing an arm to rest on his eyes, blocking out the glare of the sun. "I don't know," he repeated, the words sounding less like a protest and more like a cry for help. "I want them both, Namie-nee-chan. I want Iwa-chan as much as I want volleyball," he continued. "I want them equally."

Slowly, inch by grueling inch, Namie turned to serve him a pointed look. “What?” Oikawa snapped, as she gestured helplessly. "What did you _just_ say?"

Oikawa blinked. _Equally_ , he had said. Huh. _Equally_ , which had never been an option for him until this moment. _Equally_ , like realizing belatedly that he wasn't alone; that there were five other players standing with him on the court. He wanted them equally. He loved them equally. He—

Fuck. Oikawa jerked upright, mouth hanging open in shock. 

“Is there anything in the world that would stop you from playing volleyball?” Namie asked.

“Death," he choked out, palming his knee subconsciously.

“Then why is distance stopping you from dating Hajime?” 

“Like I said,” Tooru muttered, knowing it was a losing battle, “it’s _hard_.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not at all liking where the conversation was going. As much as Iwaizumi had contributed to their fights, ultimately it was him who had given up first. Sure, he liked to think that he has grown as a person in the past three years, but who could say for sure that things would fare better if they gave long-distance another shot? 

Namie eyed the scruffy ball in his hands. “Is volleyball always easy for you?” 

Oikawa's humorless laugh was answer enough for the both of them. _Compromise_ , Iwaizumi had said two nights ago. Oikawa thought he had been making another plea for his return to Japan, but what if it has never been about him dropping everything to move back here?

Oikawa groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “Am I actually an idiot?” he asked, drawing a chuckle out of Namie. “The biggest one,” she affirmed affectionately. “Honestly, I don’t know what Hajime sees in you.” 

“My pretty face,” Oikawa said, just barely holding back from releasing an ungodly screech. “And something about being a damn good setter.” 

“How uncharacteristically self-aware,” a third voice intoned.

Oikawa removed his hands, a look of surprise coloring his face. “Iwa-chan?” he whispered, while the man in question flashed him a grin. “Namie-nee-san,” he greeted with open arms as she stood up and dusted the back of her pants. While they hugged it out like long-lost battle comrades, Oikawa had to remind himself that this was not the time or place to feel just the slightest bit jealous that they were on such casual first name basis. In fact, the right time or place for that likely didn't exist.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it then,” Namie said, waving at the both of them. “See you at dinner, Hajime.” 

Iwaizumi waved back and took his place by Oikawa, plopping down on the swing Namie had occupied just moments ago, not missing the furtive glance Oikawa sent his way. "Looks like we both have something to say," he said, knowing before Oikawa nodded that he was right. "You can go first," Iwaizumi offered.

Oikawa pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don't know, Iwa-chan,” he said honestly, knuckles death white around the metallic links. Iwaizumi’s deep understanding of his psyche was both a blessing and a curse. “My thoughts are still kind of half-baked right now.” 

“So?” he asked, peeling Oikawa’s fingers off the chain painstakingly to thread them together with his before letting their conjoined hands fall in the space between them. “When has that ever stopped you from sharing them with me?” 

Oikawa snorted, decidedly amused despite the jab at himself. He tightened his grip around Iwaizumi’s hand as an automatic, “Rude, Iwa-chan,” tumbled out of his mouth. It felt as though they were once again on the edge of something monumental. If they would just allow themselves to tip over into these uncharted depths, maybe this time they would discover wonders to behold. 

Holding his breath, locking eyes with Iwaizumi, Oikawa dove headfirst off the ledge. “Okay,” he said quietly, knowing Iwaizumi would catch every word regardless. “Promise you won’t be mad though.” 

Iwaizumi eyed him warily. “Why is that a possibility?” he asked.

“I swear I put a lot of thought into it,” Oikawa said. “But it may sound kind of like a cop out answer?” 

Over the past forty-eight hours, Iwaizumi had fretted excessively over what Oikawa would tell him once he was "completely sure": a million different scenarios of how it could all play out haunting him in his waking hours; dreaming of Oikawa pointing and laughing at him with the gold around his neck; wondering what the train ride back to Tokyo would be like on their way to Miyagi. But now that it came down to it, he was strangely at peace. Without any need for elaboration on Oikawa’s part, Iwaizumi knew what his answer was. Perhaps he had known all along. 

“Let me guess," he said, turning to face Oikawa with his free hand poised seriously on his lap. "You're gonna say we're equally important?” 

Oikawa opened his mouth to respond. When he realized the denial on the tip of his tongue was an outrageous lie, he snapped it back shut. He let the question simmer for a few more seconds as he tried to come up with a dignified retort, groaning when his wits eluded him and forced him to settle for a strangled, "Get out of my mind, stupid Iwa-chan," which elicited a small chuckle from Iwaizumi. Then, with less conviction, "Are you mad?" 

Iwaizumi resisted a bewildering urge to shake some sense into him, rolling his eyes instead at the idea that he would be _mad_ at being volleyball's equal. To anyone else? Sure. To Oikawa volleyball-is-unironically-my-life Tooru? "I mean... how dare you take twenty-seven years to decide I’m only _equally_ important to a sport?" 

“Volleyball isn’t—”

"—isn’t just a sport,” Iwaizumi finished for him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah.” He sat ramrod straight buzzing with uncontained energy for as long as he could hold out — a good five seconds — before lifting off his feet unceremoniously and capturing Oikawa’s lips in a kiss, pressing their foreheads together when they pulled apart to stare mesmerized into his favorite hue, a little cross-eyed. The lushest brown greeted him, uniform where his was tainted. It sang to him of yearning, of wanting, and maybe this time, of receiving. He really might just be the luckiest man alive. 

Dropping down to his seat, lips making one funny shape after another as he tried to school his expression back to neutral, Iwaizumi cocked his head at Oikawa. “Prove it,” he dared, under the impression that Oikawa hasn’t thought this far ahead. He expected something half-assed and nebulous like, _I'll visit more,_ or, _I'll spend more time in the offseason with you_ , so when Oikawa responded with, "Los Angeles," something fierce burning in his eyes, Iwaizumi couldn't blame his stomach for executing a series of backflips. "Los Angeles is yours," Oikawa repeated. "Offseasons too of course. Just give me Paris." He mistook Iwaizumi's silence for hesitation and pressed on. "I just need one more chance with my team," he begged, free hand curling up into a fist. "With Argentina."

When Iwaizumi thought back to this moment, he would recall vividly the bead of sweat trickling along the curve of his spine, the sun blaring down on them oppressively, and the roaring whisper of the cicadas. His world was confined to heat, noise, and the boy before him sounding out words he was ill-prepared to process. He would've jumped at this chance in high school, no questions asked. But now, equipped with the understanding that an athlete only has so many years in his prime yet so many more after that to do as he pleased, spend with Iwaizumi if he so pleased, Iwaizumi knew it wasn't right for him to steal this time.

Though there was one thing he had to confirm. 

“What if you don’t win gold in Paris?” he countered, searching Oikawa’s countenance for something he wasn’t sure the other man possessed. “Can you still give me Los Angeles?” 

Oikawa nodded simply.

“Of course.” 

“Sure?” 

“Yep.”

“ _Sure_?” 

A tiny smile crept onto his lips. “Yes, Hajime."

Iwaizumi released their hands. Oikawa chased after him, laying his palm over Iwaizumi’s where it has settled on his lap. “You really think I’m worth a gold medal?” Iwaizumi asked.

His voice was a quiet, unsteady thing. Oikawa saw the wet splotch on Iwaizumi’s pants before he caught the fluttering of eyelashes and the trembling of lips, marked red from worrying. Beneath the sheen of tears, Iwaizumi's eyes glimmered with something Oikawa wanted to spend the rest of his life studying. Has Iwaizumi always looked at him like this?

“I’ve been treating you even worse than I thought, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmured, thumbing the corner of Iwaizumi’s eye. He was shards of a bossy five year old gently kissing Oikawa’s scraped knee turned into the attractive and wildly protective seventeen year old turned into this, Oikawa’s most ardent supporter who always had trouble putting himself first, giving Oikawa the time of day like he wasn’t more worthy, that really made Oikawa want to stay by him and pick up all the pieces and prove to him that he was. “I’m sorry.” 

Iwaizumi laughed, blushed-up skin contorting around puffy eyes, and Oikawa thought he looked radiant. He rubbed furiously at his face, quickly getting rid of any tearful evidence. “You should be,” he said, hoping Oikawa would know he didn’t mean it. “I’ve waited ten years, Tooru. Los Angeles hardly seems _equal_.” He cut in before Oikawa could respond. “Why don’t I offer you a better deal?” he said, presenting a silicone-enclosed device he had fished out of his pocket. Oikawa received it skeptically, instinctively pressing a thumb on the home button to unlock it and only registering surprise when it worked. “My fingerprint,” he said, blinking up at Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Just because you probably deleted mine out of some petty need to have the last word—” 

He had. 

“—doesn’t mean I’m as spiteful as you are,” he said, an accusatory finger pointed at Oikawa.

Oikawa pursed his lips. “Add yours back later,” he said, hearing Iwaizumi’s huff in response but missing the mixture of exasperation and fondness in his gaze as his own attention remained on the phone. It had opened up to Iwaizumi's Mail app with an attachment already in focus. The letterhead seemed awfully familiar, Oikawa thought, frowning, not sure if he should be reading through what was definitely a contract. He was about to pass the phone back to Iwaizumi and demand an explanation when his eyes caught onto a string of words on the screen. Hurriedly, he swiped right to return to the email that had accompanied the attachment and almost dropped Iwaizumi's phone upon seeing the subject title. 

“Keep Los Angeles,” Iwaizumi said, with gravitas, with meaning. A prayer. "Give me everything after that.”

Oikawa skimmed through the rest of it, reading more swiftly than he ever thought possible. He recognized the sender's name, certain he had seen it in passing before. And no wonder. “How?” he paused to control the tremor in his voice. “How am I supposed to compete with this?” 

Iwaizumi scoffed. Oikawa saw the hands clenching by his sides and didn’t understand what _he_ had to be nervous for. “Not everything’s a competition, Oikawa.” 

“Yeah, but now I’m sorry I even asked you for more.” Confused laughter bubbled up from within him as he shook his head in disbelief. “What the fuck, Hajime?” 

“It's okay,” Iwaizumi said, as if they were discussing a failed service ace rather than the rest of their lives. “We've established that you have a shitty personality.” 

“I’m going to retire after Los Angeles,” Oikawa said, barely a whisper. Iwaizumi’s profile was starting to blur around the edges. “So asking for after Los Angeles when I could live anywhere…” he laughed again. “That’s even less of a fair trade, Iwa-chan.” 

All Iwaizumi could think was, it didn’t matter when or where as long as Oikawa was there. It was slightly dizzying, all this freedom. Maybe he would come to regret it later when he was stuck in a country that was foreign to him in every way except one, but he doubted it. Even if he had been late to realize it, Oikawa has been his absolute for twenty-seven years now, and he saw no reason that should start to change.

Like a palm drawn to a perfect set, Iwaizumi whirled around at the first sob that ripped through Oikawa to cup his face gently. “Well, how was I supposed to know?” he demanded gruffly. “Excuse me for being unable to read your mind.” 

Hand on hand, eye to eye, Oikawa climbed out of the shabby swing, and Iwaizumi rose to meet him. What a view they must be against the setting sun — two grown men in a tiny playground they should’ve outgrown, faces twisted ugly and in love, bodies leaving no space in-between. 

Clutching tightly onto his shirt, lips brushing against a smile rooted in the depths of his heart, Oikawa whispered into his mouth, “Liar.”

Printed in big, bold letters on a screen that was fading back to darkness:

**RE: WELCOME TO OBRAS SAN JUAN VOLEY**

—

“Hurry up, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa cried. “We’re going to be late for dinner.” 

An hour before said dinner, his mom had realized rather belatedly that they were out of beer. Oikawa had volunteered to pick some up, dragging a not unwilling Iwaizumi with him. 

Six-packs in hand, Iwaizumi scowled. “And whose fault would that be?” he asked, placing a dozen bottles on the counter. Oikawa, who had begged to take the scenic route to the convenience store, at least had the decency to hover his phone over the payment terminal preemptively. 

“ _Oikawa-senshu?_ ” 

Two heads snapped around to the sliding doors that had just glided open with a telltale whoosh. Standing by the entrance were four boys whose faces were warped in varying degrees of shock, clad in all too familiar white and teal jerseys. “Is that really you?” squeaked the boy leading the pack.

“Ah, Mishima-kun~” Oikawa purred, putting his phone away to clap both hands in recognition. "Good job taking the team to nationals last season." Iwaizumi had a split second to wonder how they knew each other when an extremely flustered Mishima-kun sputtered out the same question, and Oikawa answered, with much more grace, “I keep tabs on my kouhai, obviously.”

“Your _kouhai_ ,” the poor boy parroted, looking like he was about to lose his mind or die of heart failure, or both. Behind him, one of his friends was frantically digging through his backpack while another had his hand outstretched, as if waiting for something. 

“S-Selfie,” Mishima managed at last, shaking his head as if to try and clear it. “Can we get a selfie, please?” The two boys at the back, finished with the rummaging, presented Oikawa with a pen and volleyball. “And an autograph?” they added hopefully. 

Iwaizumi inserted his card into the terminal, thanking the cashier after the payment went through. He picked up the alcohol and smiled at the way Oikawa’s signature tongue-out-peace-sign pose looked a little more sincere in its cheer today. He decided to loiter by the rack of chocolates directly across the cash register, allowing Oikawa his moment and secretly savoring the moment himself, as he inspected the different varieties of nuts and dried fruit that apparently mixed well with cocoa. 

“Um, Iwaizumi-san,” said a voice so quiet Iwaizumi almost didn’t catch it, having to strain his ears to make out the rest of what he was saying, “right?” Iwaizumi turned around to take in the boy who had detached from the rest of the group. He was tall with narrow shoulders, smaller frame belying growing muscles. Iwaizumi felt a pang of guilt at not knowing his name. Leave it to Oikawa to be thorough at literally everything. “Athletic trainer for Team Japan?” the boy prodded.

“That’s me,” Iwaizumi confirmed in what he considered to be his most amicable tone. 

The boy smiled, introducing himself with a bow, “My name is Masaomi Eiji. It’s very nice to meet you, Iwaizumi-san. I saw the article you published in Volleyball Monthly last month—” 

Iwaizumi blinked, hardly believing what was happening. Sure, it was no easy feat to attain his accomplishments at twenty-seven, but an athletic trainer wasn’t someone who commanded the spotlight. He knew that — had known it going in, and honestly, had preferred it, having never been a big fan of stealing the center of attention. To be on the receiving end of such a treatment, especially when Oikawa was right there, was unusual, to say the least.

He caught Oikawa’s eyes from across the room as Masaomi chattered on about his favorite parts of the piece and gushed about how interesting Iwaizumi's research was. Oikawa was staring at him weird, almost like the way he usually—

Iwaizumi inhaled sharply. It was the look Oikawa reserved for volleyball. His eyes darted away as his chest squeezed with newfound power. 

“Iwaizumi-san, are you alright?” Masaomi questioned, a hint of concern in his voice. “Sorry, I’m not boring you, am I?” Before Iwaizumi could respond, Oikawa’s voice cut across the room. “How about we play some volleyball?” 

“Seriously?” Mishima said, looking like he might pass out. 

Oikawa grinned, raw and dangerous. “I’m always serious when it comes to volleyball.”

Iwaizumi wasn't even surprised when they had ended up at Seijoh. Oikawa took in the court the same way he took in every other one, like it was his. Iwaizumi shuffled awkwardly by his side. The four boys were busy setting up: wheeling the volleyball cart over, pitching up the net, lugging the scoreboard out before realizing there would be no one to keep track of it. Oikawa laughed.

“Do you remember,” Iwaizumi started. Oikawa, hand on hip, pouty lips, interjected, “How can I forget, Hajime?” 

And Iwaizumi felt everything sinking in at once; the reality of their situation finally hitting him. The fire in his veins were replaced by molten gold; the seed he planted two nights ago were sprouting leaves and bearing fruit. He breathed in deliberately, corner of his lip flickering to life with his exhale. Wanting, again and again and again.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That would be pretty unthinkable for you.” _For us._

Later, when they had arrived hand in hand thirty minutes after when the joint dinner was supposed to start, both families had only sighed, shaking their heads in expectant disappointment. 

Except Namie. Looking up from her phone, gaze falling on their interlaced hands, she had shrugged. “Better late than never, I guess.” 

—

It was 8:46PM the Sunday before graduation and Iwaizumi found himself in the Seijoh gymnasium with Oikawa. He wasn’t sure of the logical reasoning behind it, or if there was any. Just like Argentina might be the natural flow of things, so was coming back here after that conversation. 

“You got in for sports science?” Oikawa asked, standing diagonally across from where Iwaizumi was. He let the ball bounce a couple times against the hardwood floor before tossing it up for a serve, stumbling slightly out of it. Iwaizumi clicked his tongue, making a mental note to check on Oikawa’s ankle later. 

“Yeah,” he responded too casually, trying not to let it show on his face that he was speaking to one of his main motivators for the major. Oikawa caught on anyway, sporting a grin as he turned to face Iwaizumi. “Iwa-chan,” he cooed sweetly, teasingly. “You’re doing it for me, aren’t you?” 

“No,” he insisted, scowling when Oikawa sent over a ball that was just a little too high. Regrettably, his body moved out of instinct to hit it anyway. Iwaizumi redirected the scowl at his traitorous palm as he exclaimed, “What the fuck, Crappykawa?” 

Oikawa blew him a raspberry. “Liars get bad sets, Iwa-chan~” he said. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.” 

Iwaizumi groaned, putting all his strength behind the next spike. Oikawa flinched as if his nerves were connected to the ball, like a niche yet oddly fitting voodoo doll. “Just wait ‘til someone beats that shitty personality out of you,” Iwaizumi warned, though they both knew that he would be the first person to beat up anyone who laid even an unwanted finger on Oikawa. Still, they kept up the act — something about adolescence fooling them into thinking they had all the time in the world to be dishonest with each other. “Ugh,” Oikawa cried, making a face. “Why am I stuck with such a mean boyfriend?” He raised a hand dramatically to his forehead.

“Screw you,” Iwaizumi grumbled. They continued with their drills: Iwaizumi with a deep set frown and Oikawa with a smile he didn’t mean. If he could inherit a superpower, Oikawa was sure he'd go for either freakish athletic talent or the ability to read Iwaizumi’s mind. Iwaizumi rarely strayed from being brutally straightforward, making the few times he did — retreating into himself, shutting everyone out without realizing it — even more painful for Oikawa. 

He was about to produce a sassy retort to bait Iwaizumi into spilling his thoughts, was just parting his lips to speak, when Iwaizumi swiveled on his heels and locked eyes with him. “You’re not stuck with me," he said, shoulders tense underneath his shirt. 

Oikawa looked away, walking past the neatly drawn white line to initiate his serving sequence. “What if I want to be?” he demanded. 

Iwaizumi studied him in a sidelong glance, hand itching for something to spike. “Do you really?” 

“Why?” Oikawa challenged, eyebrow raised, landing gracefully this time. "You're not up for it?

Iwaizumi stilled, shivering as a sudden draft washed over him. “Argentina,” he muttered, less of a statement than a question, "huh?" He rolled the word around his tongue, testing the feel of it. He mapped it out in his head: somewhere across the world, Argentina. What time was it in Argentina right now? Would he be asleep when Oikawa was awake? Would Oikawa be luxuriating in sunlight while he was jogging through snow? He thought of the match they went to all those years ago as his heart sank deeper into a never-ending pit and knew that this was where they had always meant to end up.

If Oikawa was the sun, Iwaizumi would readily let him blind him. If Oikawa was the moon, Iwaizumi would find the brightest star to draw out his truest potential. If Oikawa was headed to Argentina, well, Iwaizumi would just have to match him every step of the way. 

He stared at Oikawa, mirroring his determination. “Just don’t start whining when you can’t get rid of me."

Oikawa smiled, picking up another ball from the bin to give it a spin, content with the feel of leather against his fingers and Iwaizumi’s presence next to him. He covered the distance from the serving area to the net in a few quick strides, setting the ball across the court to Iwaizumi as he had done so many times before. “I won't,” he promised.

“Good," Iwaizumi said, jumping up to meet everything that awaited him. In a split second of teenage gusto, as his palm made contact with the ball, he added, "I'm never letting you go." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if at any point in this chapter (or any of the previous ones, but mostly this one) you thought, "wait was that a reference to—" or "are you paralleling—" the answer is yes. very intentionally yes. 
> 
> also yes my lack of foresight forced me to refer to oikawa tooru as "oikawa" and his sister as "namie" even though she is (was?) also an oikawa. i apologize :') 
> 
> see you soon and thank you for reading all the way up to (near) the end! get ready for some fluff 🖤


	8. The Rest of Our Lives

“Hajime,” came a petulant voice. 

Iwaizumi squeezed his eyes shut. It was an occupational hazard to be awake before 7AM on their day off and a hazard that came with dating Oikawa to be dealing with whatever this was before 7AM on their day off. He snuggled back against warmth and hoped against hope that Oikawa would let him slumber for a while longer, finding no energy to protest when he didn't — tongue darting across the side of his ear jerking him awake and away from the unknown wetness. Bastard. Iwaizumi flipped around to bury himself in his chest. “What do you want?” he grumbled, vaguely registering the dull yet repetitive tapping of fingers on screen. 

Oikawa mumbled a string of numbers. “What?” Iwaizumi asked, blinking his eyes open. He shoved his head between Oikawa’s body and arms to peek at his phone, glowering at the name printed on it. “What's Kuroo feeding you now?” he demanded. 

“You know what,” Oikawa sulked as Iwaizumi's brain caught up to the situation at hand. Numbers. Kuroo. Pouty Oikawa. The name of someone he once picked up at a bar flashing on the screen. “And you're upset because?” he asked, withdrawing just enough to meet Oikawa’s gaze, the acidity he found confirming his suspicions. Iwaizumi barked out a laugh. "No way," he whispered.

“That's what I thought,” Oikawa said, huffing. “But what do you know, it is exactly,” he made a pinching motion with his thumb and index finger to illustrate the slight disparity, “one greater than mine.” He crossed his arms against his chest and shifted onto his back, pushing Iwaizumi off him. “And now it’ll forever be one greater than mine.” 

_Forever_ , Iwaizumi’s mind sang. _Forever_ , Iwaizumi’s heart sang. “Forever, huh?” Iwaizumi sang, relishing in the rosiness that dusted Oikawa’s cheeks. He smirked, lifting himself up on his side to plant a kiss on plush lips. “That’s a lot of time for me to make up the difference."

Oikawa's blush grew a few shades deeper. “Ugh,” he muttered, someplace between annoyance and arousal. “You can't just _make up_ for it.”

Iwaizumi rolled over, caging Oikawa underneath him. He lowered down to his forearms, bringing his face inches away from Oikawa’s. “Sure can," he replied, leaning down to capture his lips again. Mouths moved lazily against each other: teeth digging lightly into flesh, tongues drawing languid strokes, lips dancing playfully. Time — of those who had lived without it and understood, now, its privilege — consciously spent.

Breaking apart with a grin, Iwaizumi kicked the duvet off them as he made his way down Oikawa’s chest, a trail of kisses blazing in his wake. He peered up as he descended upon the waistband of Oikawa’s trunks, a wicked glint to his eyes. He nibbled on the strip of flesh right above the elastic before tugging on it with his teeth, pulling just enough for it snap back resoundingly. 

“Ow,” Oikawa complained, even as the outline of his half-hard dick twitched visibly beneath the fabric. Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. Oikawa raised two. “What?” he said. “We were making out.” As if Iwaizumi had somehow missed that. Remaining silent, Iwaizumi cupped Oikawa’s erection and watched in satisfaction as he rolled his hips to meet the touch. 

“Greedy,” Iwaizumi reprimanded, palming him through the material. 

“Just taking what's mine,” Oikawa said, breaths coming in shorter. “Aren't you making it up to me?” 

“And bratty,” Iwaizumi added, bringing his lips around the tip of Oikawa’s cock, still tucked neatly in his underwear. Oikawa sighed, eyes fluttering shut as his hands settled on the back of Iwaizumi’s head. Iwaizumi sucked him off diligently until his cock was standing at full attention, head poking out of the waistband. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa whined, hands clenching and unclenching in his hair. “Take it off.” Iwaizumi paused to admire the sight before him: flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, sculpted body straining under his fingertips. He licked his lips and decided that as far as flavors of Oikawa went, even if nothing would ever top king-of-the-court, debauched-and-writhing ranked dangerously close. 

Iwaizumi hooked both thumbs under his shorts and teased it off him at a cruel pace, eyes trained on the little reactions beyond Oikawa's control. Oikawa's disapproving glare quickly melted back into hazy desire when Iwaizumi took him in his mouth, making a show of hollowing his cheeks as he bottomed out and swallowed around Oikawa. 

“Hah… Hajime.” Iwaizumi worked his way back up Oikawa’s length, tongue circling the underside of his cock, tracing the tip. “More,” Oikawa begged, tilting his hips upward. Iwaizumi pinned him down against the mattress with firm hands. “Faster, Ha— _jime_ ,” he cried as Iwaizumi sucked on his head, almost too much, a little too mean. “Fuck!” 

Iwaizumi wrapped a hand around Oikawa's pretty cock and released him with an exaggerated pop. “You said you wanted more?” he asked innocently, sly smile pulling at his lips. “Not like— _ah_ ,” Oikawa moaned as Iwaizumi’s hand worked in a delicious twist. “Hajime,” Oikawa begged, breathy, as the hand picked up its pace. 

“Not gonna tell me what to do?” Iwaizumi drawled, indulging. 

Oikawa shot him a glare. “Good,” he praised, smiling as his lips enveloped Oikawa once more. 

—

One and a half showers later — Iwaizumi wasn't sure if cleanup within ongoing cleanup counted as a full shower — they were sprawled on Oikawa’s couch before an open laptop, Argentinian sun soaking up the room. They had just gotten off a New Year's call with Oikawa's family, Iwaizumi's before that, and were waiting on another one from their favorite high school duo when Oikawa, furiously typing away on his phone, gestured at the coffee table. "Hajime," he whined, dragging out the word, "I look like I have a double chin." The pout Iwaizumi had watched him perfect over nearly two decades, the very one he should be impervious too but somehow, shamefully, wasn't, made an appearance. "Fix it," he demanded, irresistible and fully aware. 

Sighing, Iwaizumi obediently peeled himself off faux leather and stalked over to the shelf by Oikawa's desk, newly-purchased to accommodate his reference books. “What are you up to, anyway?” he asked upon his return, stealing a glance at Oikawa’s screen to see him marking a date on his calendar. _Right after the Olympics?_ Iwaizumi tilted his head questioningly.

“So I can guilt you into making it up to me when you forget our anniversary,” Oikawa explained, a saccharine smile directed at him. 

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes as he arranged the books in an orderly stack and carefully placed the laptop on top of it. “Some things never change,” he muttered, right as the sharp tone of an incoming call resonated through the apartment. Phone forgotten, Oikawa bent over Iwaizumi and clicked on the green button before the second ring could even sound. 

“Happy New Year!” he exclaimed to a shitfaced Hanamaki and a marginally better but still tomato-red Matsukawa. “Happy New Year,” Iwaizumi parroted, climbing back onto the couch and taking his place next to Oikawa. 

Hanamaki blew on a paper horn in response as Matsukawa shoved him out of the frame with a hand on his cheek. “How's Argentina, Iwaizumi?” he droned, ignoring the way Oikawa balked at having been completely ignored. “Is it everything you’ve ever wanted and more?” There was a slight slur to his words that was almost endearing. 

Iwaizumi felt Oikawa’s hand snaking around his waist and smiled. If Oikawa noticed him leaning needily into the touch, he didn’t let anything show. Iwaizumi ignored the odd sense of protectiveness welling up in his chest. “Yeah,” he replied. "Everything I’ve ever wanted and more.” Beside him, Oikawa beamed. 

“Sucks to suck! I told you they’d stay together this time,” came Hanamaki’s voice from somewhere to Matsukawa’s right. “Pay up, loser.” 

Oikawa gawked. “Mattsun, what's going on?"

Iwaizumi shook his head in disbelief. "Fuckin' compulsive gamblers."

"Yeah, but he's never bet _against_ us?”

Matsukawa threw his head back in laughter as he reached behind for his wallet and dropped it in Hanamaki’s waiting hands. “Drinks on me,” he said, ushering the other man away with a gentle push. Then, bringing his phone up to his mouth, bequeathing the sight of each and every pixelated pore on his face to a grimacing Oikawa and an amused Iwaizumi, he whispered, “I just wanted him to win.” 

“Disgusting!” Oikawa declared, angry finger pointing at virtual patch-of-Matsukawa's-skin. “You’re not allowed to be sappier than Iwa-chan.” 

“I’m gonna ask him to marry me,” Matsukawa continued, speaking over Oikawa. He would later explain with words like _Vegas_ and _partnership certificate_ — words which had Iwaizumi's chest tightening as he squeezed Oikawa's hand — but for now they knew better than to ask. “Damn,” Iwaizumi said instead, like a good friend. “Congrats, man.” 

“He’s coming back,” Matsukawa said, sobering up all of a sudden. “I’m gonna—”

“Good luck, Mattsun~” Oikawa said, sincerity shining through despite his cheeky tone.

“Call us back later,” Iwaizumi urged. 

“Send photos of his ugly crying!” was the last thing Oikawa got in before the feed turned to black and cut off.

There was a thoughtful beat of silence. Iwaizumi saw Oikawa's lightbulb moment; saw as he turned to face him, lips parted, and gave him a microsecond to react, bringing his hands thundering down on Oikawa's mouth as he hissed, "Shut up," not at all buying the look of confusion. "If we’re doing this," he said, willing the red of his face to chill the fuck out, "we’re going to do it properly.”

Feigned puzzlement gave way to ancient power. A smile spread against his fingers. 

—

“Let me get this straight,” Iwaizumi said from the passenger seat, palms pressed together in obvious concern, “you’re going to make us an—”

“—an Oikawa Tooru New Year’s Eve dinner special,” Oikawa finished for him, nodding pleasantly. 

Iwaizumi cast him a doubtful sidelong glance. “Right,” he said. “And then we’re going to stay up past midnight for... a fireworks show?”

“We have to,” Oikawa insisted, drumming his fingers mindlessly on the steering wheel as they waited for the light to turn. “Don’t you want to kiss me at midnight? Keep the spark alive?” He pulled his gaze away from Iwaizumi as the traffic around them came to life.

“Didn't think it was dying both times you fucked me this morning, Tooru,” Iwaizumi said dryly, clutching the carton of eggs he was holding closer to his chest at a particularly sharp right from Oikawa. The groceries they had just purchased tumbled audibly in the trunk.

“Well, you’ve always been oblivious,” Oikawa reasoned, waving in his face. Iwaizumi snapped his jaw repeatedly at Oikawa's fingers, threatening to bite them off. Oikawa yanked his hand back with a grimace. “Brute,” he muttered darkly. 

“ _Your_ brute,” Iwaizumi corrected, attempting a wink. Oikawa refrained from teasing him about how stilted it was on account of being stupidly in love, but not even stupidity could keep him from laughing when he produced a bag of unopened buckwheat flour from a kitchen cabinet, specially procured during his month-long visit back to Japan, and Iwaizumi, who had been in the middle of unpacking their groceries, had frozen up by the fridge, door slowly inching open until it was almost completely parallel to the appliance. 

“What are you doing with that?” he whisper-shouted, like he was afraid to find out. 

“So—”

“Tell me you’re not making soba from scratch.” 

Oikawa’s lips stretched into a tantalizing smile as Iwaizumi was accosted by strong feelings mostly induced by the time Oikawa had called him in a panic to ask how he’d know the pork was cooked, and the time Oikawa had sent an innocent photo of scorched rice, and the time Oikawa had almost burnt off half an arm trying to deep fry croquettes. 

“Tooru, you don’t have to do this,” he begged, taking a step forward. “Whatever it is, I forgive you.”

Oikawa shook his head, amusement curling his lips. "I didn't do anything wrong."

“Okay, uh,” Iwaizumi pivoted, trepidation slowly rising within him as he racked his brain, "I'm sorry for one-upping your body count?” he tried. Oikawa frowned as Iwaizumi quickly worked to rectify his brainless statement. “I didn’t mean— It wasn't on _purpose—_ “

"Hajime,” Oikawa said with stern finality, "put the groceries away and go read a book.” 

Iwaizumi complied in a daze, finding himself lounging in the dining area after the last of their chicken breast had been safely stowed in the freezer. He put on a match Oikawa had expressed interest in to drown out the clanging and chopping from the kitchen, mostly for the sake of his own sanity, each dubious noise causing a spike in his heart rate. After a few chapters of distracted reading and valiantly ignoring the potential disaster across the room, a bowl of steaming noodles appeared in his periphery.

“You’re not even watching the game,” Oikawa commented, setting down another bowl next to the first one.

Iwaizumi shrugged, slipping his phone in-between the pages of his book. “I wasn't the one who wanted to,” he said. 

Oikawa smiled, hunching over the high-top table to blow on his noodles. He caught Iwaizumi’s wary scrutiny of the dish and poked at the other bowl, nudging it closer to him. “Try it,” Oikawa encouraged, slurping down his food. “It looks good, doesn’t it?” the words came out slightly garbled. “Tempting? Harmless?” 

Iwaizumi hummed, peering up at Oikawa from beneath his lashes. He blinked, innocent. “You should know better than anyone else that the prettiest faces can sometimes mask the shittiest—”

Oikawa shoved a tempura shrimp in his mouth, nose scrunched up in irritation. "Stupid Iwa-chan, you're gonna eat my food and take it all back," he seethed in what Iwaizumi hoped was jest because fuck him if this tempura wasn't actually delicious, perfect crunch against fresh seafood, "but I'm never, _ever_ ," he leveled his chopsticks at Iwaizumi, "going to cook for you _ever_ again." He turned away at Iwaizumi's apology, a feeble attempt at damage control, however earnest his intentions. Iwaizumi stuffed as much noodles as he could physically fit in his mouth before tipping the entire bowl over to gulp down equally tasty broth. Actions speak louder than words and whatnot. “I take it back," he pleaded, a hint of a smile slipping onto his features. "Tooru, I take it back. Don't stop cooking for us.” He swiped Oikawa’s bowl out of his hands. “Here, I’ll even finish yours.”

Oikawa smacked his arm, prompting free-flowing laughter out of Iwaizumi. Who would've guessed that Oikawa would someday come to be the better cook between the two of them? The meal in his hands, crafted out of buckwheat flour and three years of untold stories, filled Iwaizumi with the knowledge that they had tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow to paint the journey from hysterical half-raw pork to toshikoshi soba on a quiet New Year's Eve afternoon.

At the final whistle, Oikawa dangled his phone above Iwaizumi. Having migrated to the couch, his nose was once again buried in his book while his head rested peacefully on Oikawa's lap. “What do you think?” Oikawa prompted. 

Eyes flickered from the anatomy of a human foot to a listing for a two-bedroom. When Iwaizumi tried swiping down to read the rest of it, the picture shrunk instead, revealing itself as a screenshot. “You're looking at apartments?” he asked.

“My tiny studio can't possibly fit all this," Oikawa explained, cocking his head at the overflow of stuff in the room as his right hand gave Iwaizumi's bicep a sneaky squeeze. "Look, it's bursting at the seams." 

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes at the weak double entendre, pushing himself up into a seated position as he placed the book facedown on the coffee table. He held Oikawa’s stare for a few seconds, seemingly coming to a decision before moving to straddle him. “What about these?” he asked, groping Oikawa's shoulders in retaliation. “Looks to me like they’re half the problem.” 

Oikawa’s hands settled on Iwaizumi’s backside, one on each cheek. He raised an eyebrow in question. “Fine,” Iwaizumi relented, smirking. “Maybe just a third.” 

“Cocky, arrogant,” Oikawa huffed, contrary to the satisfied smile he was sporting. “I don’t even know you anymore.” 

Iwaizumi closed the distance between them, succumbing to the temptation of Oikawa’s lips. He bit down as he felt Oikawa knead his ass, swallowing the ensuing moan when Oikawa’s hips rocked forward to meet his.

The laughter was unexpected, jarring enough that Iwaizumi almost paused to ask him if something was the matter, giddy enough that he didn't.

“You’re wrong," Oikawa said. 

"Hmm?" Iwaizumi mumbled. "About what?" 

"We won't ever be _complacent_.” Iwaizumi burrowed into the nook of Oikawa’s shoulder and sucked on the sensitive skin of his neck. "But," Oikawa's hands slipped under his shirt, slowly riding it up, up, over his head, leaving his hair disheveled. "I'm very much," nimble fingers came around to start on the button of his pants, “content.” 

—

On a gingham blanket in a park five blocks away from Oikawa's apartment, a few minutes to midnight, Iwaizumi realized that this would be his first time entering a new year without snow or even the hint of a chill. His legs were splayed out in front of him, one of them entangled with Oikawa's in a show of familiarity. Iwaizumi knocked the side of their heads together and slid down until he was nestled comfortably on a muscled chest.

He could get used to this. 

“Which one did you like better?” Oikawa asked as an enchanting display of fireworks erupted in the sky. Iwaizumi waited for it to end before responding, “Definitely the third one.” 

Oikawa hummed in agreement. “The ceiling-to-floor windows are nice.” 

“And it had the most space and the best layout,” Iwaizumi added, frowning slightly at Oikawa’s priorities. “But I don’t know if it’s worth—”

“Hajime,” Oikawa interjected, fixing him a look. “We can afford it.”

"Yeah, but," Oikawa arched an eyebrow, and Iwaizumi sighed in surrender. “Never mind. I never should’ve shown you my offer letter,” he mumbled, voice thick with regret. Oikawa grinned, brushing his fingers through spiky hair. “Aw, Iwa-chan, we can go through _my_ finances later if you want,” he cooed, laughing at Iwaizumi’s grunt. “Do you also want to open a joint account?” Oikawa asked, only half teasing. “I wouldn't be opposed, you know.” Iwaizumi clicked his tongue as he shoved at Oikawa, a mop of brown hair and easy laughter as he fell on his back. He clambered up to his forearms so he wouldn’t miss any of Iwaizumi’s embarrassment. “Let's tour the place,” he suggested. “Next weekend?” 

More fireworks lit up the sky as Iwaizumi nodded, the rumbling almost loud enough to drown out a distant yelling of a word Iwaizumi now recognized as a number. His eyes remained on Oikawa as he joined the countdown, shadows playing artfully on his face. 

_Ten_. Lazy summer days in Iwaizumi’s Tokyo apartment the week before school started. Messing around in his full-sized bed and rediscovering everything there was to know about each other. Oikawa liked his kisses rough and handjobs drawn out. He loved giving head. His eyes flashed dangerously when a mark Iwaizumi had sucked onto his skin bloomed dark purple in the mirror. For a month, Iwaizumi could almost pretend like he would be coming home to Oikawa everyday for the rest of his life. Then he left for Argentina.

 _Nine_. Playing volleyball for the first time in their lives without each other. Oikawa feeling like his tosses were off no matter how much he calibrated them, like an eighty-nine degree angle that tried to pass as a perfect corner. Iwaizumi undoing years of muscle memory, relearning how to spike a ball without Oikawa’s touch. 

_Eight_. Meeting Ushijima in Irvine, then Oikawa in Argentina a week later. Stealing kisses under the warmth of his comforter before early morning practice, wishing they could steal time as well. Jumping on a plane to Bolivia so Oikawa could live out another dream. Getting unbelievably lucky when it rained before their visit. The darkness hid the wobbling of his lips when Oikawa made him a promise.

 _Seven_. Fraying edges. Spending half of Oikawa’s three weeks in Japan fighting and the other half making up. Wanting to give each other everything and finding there was nothing left to give. Could two people separated by time and distance still stay as one?

 _Six_. Hinata Shouyou bursting into their lives like an unexpected pop of color: switching out Oikawa’s faded shades for rosier ones; an ugly stroke of accident on Iwaizumi’s masterpiece. Something about Hinata — a name he recognized, a man he could put a face to — didn’t sit right with Iwaizumi, settling like rotten food that refused disposal in his stomach. 

_Five_. Flying into California with an Argentinian passport. Getting picked up at LAX in a secondhand sedan, the day Oikawa learned sitting in traffic performing shitty renditions of his favorite ballads with Iwaizumi topped even his best dates with anyone else. Having to make the conscious decision to leave a piece of his heart in Irvine and not look back after this revelation was the hardest thing he's ever done. 

_Four_. News on Argentina's win against Poland, an unexpected upset, popping up as a harmless notification on Iwaizumi's screen, breaking his relatively successful three day streak for not thinking about Oikawa.

 _Three_. Catching bright eyes and windswept hair in a highlight reel, pumping a deserved fist in the air at ending a long rally with a setter dump. _Oikawa's making highlight reels_ , Iwaizumi remembered thinking dizzily, along with, _the new hair looks good on him_. But hadn't it been more than that? The hair, tan, muscles — it was like he had finally grown into them.

 _Two_. On TV: CA San Juan crowding around their setter after a long-toss from beyond the court, both a save and a set. A hand in soft brown hair, casually ruffling. Iwaizumi vibrated with memory. The words "World Championship Finals" ominously tucked away in the corner of the screen. Beside him, Hanamaki was staring, as if to ask why he would put himself through such personalized torture.

 _One_. Hearing back with good news regarding the athletic trainer position a week after Oikawa made it onto the Argentinian national team. A side order of hope, freshly served. 

“Happy New Year," they said in unison. Iwaizumi allowed the full force of an Olympic medalist to sweep him off his feet, grin stretching from ear to ear. “Happy New Year, Tooru,” he repeated sweetly and, despite himself, felt the fluttering in his stomach when Oikawa pressed warm lips onto his forehead. “Happy New Year, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi buried his face in soft, brown hair, now his and so readily available, and breathed him in, sweet as ambrosia. Oikawa pushed him off just to pull him back into a kiss. “Let’s climb Mt. Everest,” he said into the breath of air between them. He elaborated when he was met with hesitant silence, “We can do it, I think. We’re young and fit. We'll just have to train for it next offseason.” 

“After Los Angeles,” Iwaizumi countered at the end of a thoughtful pause, not exactly against the idea so much as finding it risky and borderline irresponsible for a professional athlete.

“Sure,” Oikawa said, fingers mindlessly twirling a strand of Iwaizumi's hair, so short that they slipped out of his grasp before he could make a full loop. He smirked. “Would base camp be _proper_ enough for our Hajime?” 

Another explosion of fireworks. Pinks and purples pitter-pattering to the steady ringing in Iwaizumi's ears. “What?” he sputtered, stumbling out of Oikawa’s arms, the breeze suddenly cool against his face. In a more playful lilt, Oikawa echoed, "What?" 

"You—" Iwaizumi began, then shook his head to disperse the train of thought. "Before that," he started again, "base camp? Not the summit?" 

The curl of Oikawa's lips had shifted to fondness. There was a finger caressing his cheek and eyes that had witnessed his worst looking back at him. "Don't you want to climb the summit together?" Oikawa asked simply.

They would climb up to base camp together too, Iwaizumi wanted to argue. It shouldn't make any sense, but he supposed it was kind of like making up for an extra body count; a metaphorical impossibility made possible by literalities: a pillow that smelled distinctly of home, polo-shirts stacked neatly next to blue jerseys, karaoke and meal-prepping in a kitchen that was really just a strip of appliances across a living room across a bed, dropping another person off before driving himself to work. No longer a distant blip across the world, Argentina, but right here with Oikawa, Argentina.

"Yeah," Iwaizumi breathed, the word stolen from him. Eyes he wanted to also witness his best — may he realize many more years under their tender gaze. "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh we're here, we made it!!! established couples doing happy things is my jam. also once my mind conjured up that ending i could _not_ get it out of my head. it was begging to be written.
> 
> thank you all so much for the support through eight (8) chapters! every single kudos/bookmark/comment really, truly makes my day and it means so much to see people enjoying this as much as i am. these two deserve all the happiness in the world.
> 
> you can find me on twitter [@hoesomelf](https://twitter.com/hoesomelf). i don't post a lot but i'd seriously love to talk to you guys about haikyuu/fics/this fic?/other series (for example, my growing jjk obsession aha)/just about anything else, soo definitely feel free to slide into my DMs and hmu. 
> 
> hope to see y'all again very soon 🖤


End file.
